Chapter thirteen.
Drip…drip….drip... A steady, rhythmic drip cast echoes around the cold dark room. The steel basin underneath the tap caught the small droplets of water as they fell from the leaking faucet. The faint sounds of the opera added to the haunting melody of the air, as a dark shadow sat as still as death at the table. The faint glow of a lit candle cast ghostly shadows across the unmasked portion of his visage; whose features were set as blank and impenetrable as stone.
Erik stared deep into the candlelight, without really seeing it. He sat stiffly upright; his back as rigid as stone and his gloved hands lying clenched upon the table top. The crimson ink had spread widely, drying long ago and leaving the floorboards stained red underneath his feet.
The sounds of tremendous applause broke his reverie, as he slowly blinked his eyes, bringing the sharp quill and parchment beneath his fingers into focus.
"Dear Madame…" was scrawled untidily across the small scrap of parchment, which Erik observed before crumpling it into a ball and throwing it into the fireplace.
He stood, suddenly aware of how much time had passed, and began removing his dinner jacket, white gloves, gold vest and cravat hurriedly, throwing them into a heap on the bed. The white shirt he retained. A few minutes later the door to his quarters opened, and the Phantom stepped forth. A black vest, cravat, jacket and cloak adorned his stature. He pulled a large black fedora deep over the right side of his face to conceal the mask, and worked his fingers into the soft leather of his black gloves. The sound of many footsteps echoed down the hallway; the opera had ended – there wasn't much time.
Erik started down the passageway; the lanterns had burnt low in this area, concealing him in shadow, and took a sharp right. He walked briskly down the deserted passageway and headed down the stairs, pulling a small silver key from within his cloak pocket. At the bottom of the stair case he turned left, where he was met by a solid wooden door. The key inserted perfectly into the lock and swung open with a creak. The backstage of the theatre lie before him; busy with life and excited chatter. Erik ducked behind the stage curtains, avoiding a pair of stagehands who were removing props from the last scene. He pulled back the maroon drapes and found himself on centre stage, the entire theatre laid before his eyes. It was always a spectacular sight to behold; and yet every time Erik found himself presented with its grandiosity, he felt a flare of resentment for what the curse of his wretched face had denied him.
There were a set of steps concealed by the side curtains that lead off the stage into the audience seating area. Erik passed rows and rows of rich crimson, and gold trimmed seats as he made his way to the set of gold double doors that would lead him directly out into the foyer. The foyer was filled with the lively and excited chatter of the aristocrats and their wives, and Erik could not help but smirk as he heard his name being thrown about in their raptures. He sighted Martineau across the room from him, wildly gesturing to one of his patrons who, believe it or not, looked almost as enraptured as he. Erik quickly made his way through the foyer, ducking past couples and avoiding the likes of Martineau. He pushed himself up against a side door, once again inserting the silver key, which allowed the door to open; permitting him access to the entrance hall. He had not seen Christine, nor the Girys in the foyer, and only assumed that they had already made their way to the entrance hall.
The entrance hall was filled with people making their way out of the opera house; chatting excitedly and reliving the passion that Erik had installed upon his work. Erik turned a deaf ear to them, tilting the brim of his fedora slightly upwards and fervently scanning the crowd of people for any trace of Madame Giry's party. He spotted the swirl of a chocolate-coloured gown, as it whipped around the corner of the open double-doors and out of sight. Erik side-stepped the crowd; pushing impatiently past the hoards of people milling uselessly around the exit. As he burst forth from the crowd onto the front steps, his yellow eyes blazed fiercely as he spotted Christine being helped into the carriage by a footman, before closing the carriage door behind her. He couldn't let her go.
A line of carriages with their horses strapped into the harnesses and their drivers mounted patiently on their seats; waiting for their respective Masters and Mistresses to call upon them, lined the opposite side of the cobble-stone street. Erik paused in thought before turning to look over his shoulder, and melding perfectly into the shadows. He surveyed the drivers carefully; examining which he thought to be the drunkest of the lot, and crept silently and stealthily behind him. The horse whickered nervously as it sensed Erik's impending presence. The driver did not even turn around as Erik brought his hand down swiftly upon the man's neck; hitting the point sufficiently to knock him into unconsciousness. The man fell forwards off his seat, where Erik dragged him with ease off the carriage; depositing him in to bushes off the side of the road. He turned to check on the Girys' carriage; it had not yet left its mark. Erik's nimble fingers worked quickly on the buckles and straps that held the horse securely in its harness. Before long he had freed the black mare, using the carriage to hoist himself agilely up onto its bare back, and taking the reins in his gloved hands. He gave the horse a swift kick, turning the mare around to face the Girys' carriage, which had begun moving off down the street.
Erik watched it go warily; he had always learned to keep a safe distance whenever he was stalking his prey, lest they become alert of him before the time is right. When he was sure he had at least fifty meters between he and the carriage, he gently kicked his horse into action; trotting steadily along the cobbled street, concealed in the shadow of the night. Erik's fierce yellow eyes narrowed considerably, as the landscape of London was bared before his sight; as clear as should it be daylight. He focused entirely on the carriage before him, not once letting it from his sight and committing the path it took to memory. Fifteen minutes later saw the carriage slow to a halt outside a rather battered and weathered-looking house. The garden, or lack there-of, was unkempt and extremely scraggly. The window panes were grimy on the outside, and decrepit shutters hung at odd angles from the windows. The light pouring through the windows, however, made the interior seem strangely warm and cosy. Erik pulled up his horse some way down the road and observed Madame Giry, Christine and Meg depart the carriage and make their way towards the house; Madame Giry and Meg chatted animatedly amongst themselves, but Christine seemed strangely silent.
"Is something wrong Christine? You seemed awfully quiet on the carriage ride home," Meg asked her friend concernedly.
Christine shivered slightly despite the warm breeze. Madame Giry had stopped in front of the steps and turned to face her.
"I-I just can't seem to shake the feeling that," she paused as Madame Giry raised her eyebrows, "… um, it doesn't matter; I'm just tired. Please, let's just go inside."
Erik watched on silently as the front door flew open; his yellow eyes blazing fiercely at the sight of a young man descending the steps to greet the women. His hands gripped the reins unnecessarily tight, making his knuckles turn white as bone. The horse whickered nervously, once more sensing Erik's apprehension.
Patrick smiled graciously at Madame Giry and Meg, politely enquiring after their evening before turning his attentions to Christine.
"Christine, no doubt I have said this once already this evening, but you look beautiful."
Christine tried desperately to suppress a blush that threatened to creep to her cheeks. She gifted him a small smile; unwilling to either participate in his playful banter or encourage his compliments. "Thank-you Patrick, I believe you have already."
Madame Giry and Meg smiled at one another and continued up the steps to the front door. Patrick held his hand out to Christine, smiling cheekily; "mademoiselle?"
Christine took his hand hesitantly, albeit a little resentfully, not wanting to seem rude. The moment the bare skin of their fingers touched, Christine stomach gave way to the most awful feeling, and she nearly tripped up the front steps. There was something eerily familiar about that moment; as though a ghost walked along side her as a dreadful feeling of Deja vu swept over her.
Erik's heart stopped beating in that moment as he watched his Christine hold hands with a young man of whom he knew nothing. The way he spoke and gestured to her clearly displayed his affections in a way society would not allow if Christine was still married to her precious Comte. His eyes had hardened and dulled to a faint orange as he watched to pair retreat inside the house; his countenance turning as cold as ice. "Fool," he breathed heavily before turning his mare around to return to the opera house and his solitude; the shadows enveloping his as he rode – welcoming him back into the darkness.
XxXxXxX
"… and the overture maman! I wish you could have been there Patrick, the music was so beautiful I cried even during the overture."
Patrick laughed a little, "I daresay it was an immensely enjoyable evening-"
"-Oh, but I cannot believe that girl could have been so cruel. All that man ever did was love her unconditionally, and she betrayed him ruthlessly, don't you think so maman?"
Madame Giry was peering concernedly at Christine, "I think it is all a matter of interpretation, my dear. That story was told only from the gentleman's side; we would know none of the particulars-"
Meg snorted, "none of the particulars? Maman it was plain as daylight. My, it was such a tragic opera; I spent the entire night in tears. Didn't you Chrissy?"
Christine looked up sharply, "what? Oh… uh, yes."
"Chrissy, are you ill?" Patrick looked up at her. All three sets of eyes were gazing levelly at her. Christine winced, "just a slight headache, though, perhaps I should lie down."
Madame Giry nodded, "if that is the case, then a lie-down would be a good idea. If there's anything you need, please let us know."
She lowered her eyes, "thank-you Madame Giry."
Christine quickly dismissed herself from the discussion, returning morosely to her room. What she truly wanted was to be alone. There was something in that Opera House, something familiar that had stirred memories and feelings she thought she had buried for good. And now, the memories were alive and as animated with her as if they had only happened yesterday. She sat at her dresser table, playing idly with the wax that dripped steadily from the single candle adorning the dresser top. There was something strangely comforting about the candle-light; its soft and flickering quality had always managed to calm her. It had always been something she had familiarized with her Angel, for a candle's flickering flame was never predictable, and Christine was never sure when the spell weaved by her Angel would be snuffed out leaving her all alone once again. She sighed despondently. Not only had tonight brought back painful memories of her Angel, but had reminded Christine just how much she actually missed the theatre; its exciting and unpredictable lifestyle, the electrifying atmosphere, she even found herself regretting the loss of La Carlotta's frequent tantrums; they had been such a large part of her life for so long.
One small, pearly tear freed itself from Christine's lashes and trickled slowly down her pale cheek. Whatever strength she had thought to possess that night left her and it was not long before a cascade of tears followed as she wept solidly into her hands.
Patrick stood outside her bedroom door, listening somberly to her anguished sobs.
XxXxXxX
Bright, clean morning light streamed through the part in Christine's curtains. She yawned sleepily as she tugged the covers off her bed, stretching her arms up high and bending her back in a majestic arch.
"Christine?"
There was a gentle knock on the door. Christine lifted her head lazily, expecting to see Meg's bubbly face poke through the crack in the door. Patrick's bright green eyes peered at her instead. Christine gasped and nearly fell from the bed in an attempt to hastily pull the covers off her bed up around her nearly-naked form. All that she wore was a thin chemise; highly inappropriate clothing for Patrick to see her in.
"Oh! um," Patrick stuttered, stumbling backwards and hitting his head on the door. His face had turned bright red from embarrassment, as he hastily stammered numerous apologies to Christine.
"I, uhm, didn't mean- I'm so sorry!"
After Christine had gotten over the initial shock, she tried desperately to stifle a giggle at Patrick's mortification; a feat that was proving rather difficult. Suddenly Patrick ceased his apologetic ramblings, his face falling slack in humiliation at her incessant giggling; a fraction of a moment passed where he and Christine stared at one another before he fled the room; stubbing his toe and cursing in his haste.
Christine fell back onto the bed with a sigh, her stomach cramping painfully as she tried her best to laugh quietly. Gosh! If only Meg were here to witness this!
When she as able to contain herself she emerged from her room, pulling a silk dressing gown over her chemise; (one of the items of clothing she had brought with her from Paris,) she found Patrick in the kitchen; his whisk and bowl in hand. His face was still immensely red; though Christine was unsure of whether it was still from embarrassment or the heat of the kitchen. Judging by his awkwardness, Christine assumed it to be the remnant of his earlier mortification. She smiled despite herself. Patrick smiled nervously.
"Christine, please allow me to apologise again for before; I-I shouldn't have intruded upon your privacy." Christine grinned in amusement, the whole situation appearing all the more trivial.
"Patrick, it's fine, honestly. Though, you must have come to see me about something; may I enquire as to what it was?"
"Oh, um," he set the mixing bowl down. "I was just wondering whether you would escort me into town later; there is a very lively market traveling through, and perhaps we could have lunch also?"
Christine frowned a little and Patrick's heart sank; she was going to say 'no'.
"Yes, thank-you Patrick, that would be nice."
His face broke into a wide smile; something she had not seen for a while. Christine sat on one of the kitchen stools, resting her head in her hand. There was something strangely familiar about Patrick which puzzled her slightly; she watched him bustle about the kitchen, starting the stoves and pouring mixture into the fry-pans. Some of the redness had dissipated from his cheeks, and Christine looked closely at his kind features. His brilliant green eyes were fixed in concentration on his task and he brought a large hand to his face to push his curly blonde hair back from his forehead. She smiled slightly, genuinely looking forward to this afternoon's outing – anything to take her mind off and distract her from her thoughts and memories of last night.
XxXxXxX
swoosh… Erik wrinkled his nose as a cloud of dust freed itself from the rarely-opened curtains and searched for new places to settle. The bright summer light filtered through the slightly grimy windows illuminating Erik's dank quarters. He resumed his position at the desk, pulling the piece of parchment forward and suspending his hand above it. He cursed as the loaded quill he was holding dripped splurges of crimson ink on the half-filled page. He blotted it out hastily and began writing again. Jagged, spindly notes ran ragged across the page as Erik poured his emotions into the dark concoction of music he composed. He paused in reflection, anger washing over him at the thought of his own weakness the night before. Why was he foolish enough to follow her? Snap! Erik looked down in surprise at the snapped quill in his hand; his fingers clenched unnecessarily tight around the shards of stem. He cursed darkly, throwing the quill aside and rummaging through the set of draws to his right, in search of a new one. He groaned as his search proved fruitless.
"Damn! Another unnecessary trip down town," he stood sharply from the desk, his chair clattering dramatically to the floor as he draped his long cloak over his shoulders.
He glanced outside at the warm summer's day and decided a vest and jacket would be unnecessarily hot. His long fingers trailed from his cloak fastenings, to the mask adorning his face, pressing it firmly to his skin to secure it. He winced slightly; wearing the mask out in daytime during summer would cause him to sweat profusely and make the mask extremely uncomfortable and irritating. But, there was nothing to be done about the matter. He stalked across the room and snatched the black fedora from the topmost shelf in his closet and pulled it low over his face. His eyes fell on the crumpled piece of parchment that lay discarded in the fireplace.
No, he would not dwell on thoughts of Christine; to her he was dead and that is the way it will remain. He would and he would forget he ever saw her. Nothing but a ghost, a memory…
XxXxXxX
"Oh, Patrick, look at these ones!" Christine grabbed him by the wrist and dragged him to a near-by stall. He smiled at her excitement, as she bent low over the stall table, turning various bracelets and necklaces made of the most incredibly beautiful blue and green stone, gently over in her hands. A Persian man stood behind the stall, smiling toothily at his prospective customers; keen to make a sale. Christine picked a silver and blue-stone bracelet from the pile and lifted her gaze.
"May I?" she indicated to the bracelet. He nodded enthusiastically at her, gesturing for her to try the bracelet on. Patrick stepped forward, taking Christine's arm in his hand and deftly securing the bracelet about her small wrist. The blue stones sparkled and winked in the sunlight, melding perfectly against her pale skin. Christine gushed, running her delicate fingers along the fine silver links.
"It's beautiful."
The Persian smiled widely; extremely pleased with her satisfaction, announcing in stuttered English, "I do special deal! Special deal for you!"
Christine smiled and reached within her bag for her purse before Patrick intervened. "No Christine, let me." He put a hand on hers, lowering her purse back into the bag.
She frowned, "are you sure?" She wasn't entirely sure if she was comfortable with Patrick buying things for her, lest of all things she imagined would be rather expensive. But Patrick was clearly determined to do this for Christine, and he was not to be game set.
He then began the process of bartering the price of the bracelet down, lowering his voice to a low rumble whilst Christine browsed through the rest of the items in the stall. She turned over her shoulder to see the Persian man nod and the clink of coins as Patrick passed money into the eager tradesman's hands. A few moments passed and he returned to Christine, smiling in immense satisfaction. "Shall we?"
The pair continued through the market place, stopping now and then to peer into the stalls of foreign trades people, selling anything from exquisite jewelry, to beautifully carved furniture, silk scarves and exotic foods. Patrick stopped at a stall selling hairpieces, and allowed Christine to wander ahead. He quickly looked over the items laid before him, taking in the dazzling jewels and shine from polished metal. His eyes stopped on a beautiful gold-sculptured butterfly hairclip, with cut-glass pieces arranged in patterns on the wings. He looked quickly around the see if Christine was near-by, but she was already twenty meters away, looking through a stall that sold silk scarves and embroidered cushions. Patrick gazed after her, noting the soft dappled light falling across her face, the way her eyes sparkled and her pale skin shone. She turned around, smiling as their eyes met; brilliant green unto chocolate brown. Patrick smiled incandescently, his stomach giving a nervous flutter.
"Sir?"
Patrick's reverie was broken by the voice of the stall owner, who peered curiously at him, gesturing to the hairclip clutched tightly in his grasp.
"Oh, I'm sorry," he handed the owner some money, who in turn took the hairclip from his clasp and wrapped it in brown paper, tying it off neatly with string. Patrick took the parcel and stored it deep within his coat pocket, patting it reassuringly as he jogged to catch up with Christine, who was now at least fifty meters away. He folded his hands behind his back and walked stoically alongside her, smelling the fresh summer air along with… what was that delicious smell? He turned abruptly towards Christine, noting the way her petit nose was lifted ever so slightly in an attempt to catch more of the wafting aroma. She smiled pleasantly at him, her eyes winking mischievously, "you do smell that, don't you?"
He frowned, rubbing in stomach thoughtfully, "yes, I must confess I do." He reached within his coat and pulled out an old pocket watch that had once belonged to his father, flicking it open and noting the positioning of the hands. "No wonder why, my dear, it is past one O'clock." He snapped the watch shut, "hungry?"
Christine grinned, "ravenous."
She followed Patrick as they wound their way through the crowds of people milling around the market place, until they stumbled upon a corner-store café. The bell tinkled as Patrick pushed the door open, holding it for Christine as she entered the room timidly. From the outside, she must confess, the place looked rather shabby and unkempt for an eating house. Christine was in a good mind to question the sanitation of the place, but the moment she set foot within its walls, those opinions left her completely. The interior of the café was spotlessly clean, with polished tiled floors, grey-wash walls and comfortable green-cushioned seats. But most of all it was filled with the most delicious and inviting aroma, that Christine was very disinclined to leave. Patrick motioned for her to take a seat as he took a menu up in his hand, flicking the pages casually with his fingers.
"They have a vast range of pasta dishes," he noted, reading down the page. A waitress soon tended them, taking their orders and returning to her counter. Patrick placed the menu on the table behind him and turned to find Christine smiling warmly at him, playing idly with her bracelet. They soon lapsed into lively conversation, with Christine retelling some of her life in Paris, and Patrick sharing stories of his childhood in Scotland.
"… tell me more about your brother."
"He's actually my half-brother, and there's really not a lot to tell. Liam is eleven years older than I am, and our father was married to his mother: she was Scottish. She and Liam were extremely close and had a very special bond, as our father once told me. When Liam was nine she fell ill with pneumonia and died during the winter, and my father, and Liam especially, took it tremendously hard. A year after her death, our father remarried my mother, who was English-born like he, but spent the greater part of her childhood in Ireland. A year after they married they had me, and I don't think Liam has ever really forgiven our father for moving on with his life, when he was unable to."
"That's so sad, what happened?"
Patrick sighed, "well, my father died when I was twelve and my mother was left to raise me with little income. My brother, by that stage was twenty-three and living outside of my mother's protection and care. She loved Liam, I know she did, I just wish that he had been able to see it; to be able to look past his grief. Now, he and I work and run the Inn, but I can feel he still resents me. We've never been very close, and I doubt we ever will." He stood, "I shall go pay the bill." Christine smiled sadly, watching him go. They had both lost their parents at such young ages; perhaps Patrick could understand her after all.
As they left the café Christine grabbed Patrick's hand, and turned him to face her, "Patrick, I want to thank you for your kindness today, and in buying me this bracelet-"
He held a hand up to her, "please Christine, it was my pleasure."
"But, you didn't have to. You've been nothing but good to me, Patrick, thank-you," she stood on her tip-toes and pecked him lightly on the cheek, before letting go of his hand and walking off in front of him.
Patrick stood stunned, a pink tinge slowly spreading across his cheeks as he brought his finger tips to the spot where Christine's lips had met his bare skin. He watched her go in wonder, her flaxen curls bouncing behind her, sunlight turning them into melted chocolate. Suddenly he came to his senses and proceeded after her.
An hour's meandering saw the sun beat down mercilessly upon the market square; Christine fanned herself exasperatedly and Patrick had discarded his vest long ago. What little shade that was offered by the few trees in the square was occupied, and the liveliness of the banter and barter of the market had lost its appeal. Patrick touched Christine's sleeve lightly, and she turned to face him, her cheeks tinged pink with fluster, "Christine, perhaps we should retire for the afternoon?" The sweat trickled into his eyes as he pushed his moist hair back off his forehead. His damp shirt clung to his torso, exenterating the tight abdominal muscles. His hand fell once more to his side.
Christine nodded in agreement, glancing up at the bright, hot circle hanging in the sky over head. Undoubtedly they had been here for hours; Madame Giry was probably wondering where they were, "Let us go then."
XxXxXxX
The door closed quietly behind them. No sound could be heard from within the house; neither the clink of a dish, nor the sounds of Meg's humming. The house seemed positively deserted. Christine stood in the kitchen, watching as Patrick put the few food supplies they had purchased away; storing them in the cupboards and pantries. His back remained turned to her, and Christine felt an uncomfortable trickle of sweat work its way down the nape of her neck. She shuddered slightly and left the kitchen to head for her room. She stowed away her newly bought items in her dresser draw and walked wearily into the bathroom. The faucet gurgled slightly as she twisted the rusting handle, allowing her hands to trail across the surface of the cool water as the basin began to fill. She turned it off and cupped her hands around the liquid, bringing it quickly to her face in a revitalizing splash. She removed her dress and placed it in the washing basket, sponging her soft skin with a wet flannelette to remove the dirt and grime. The caked on dust was soon washed from her face, staining the flannelette cloth brown and yellow. Her wild, untamed curls flew about her shoulders as she tried haphazardly to work a brush through them, separating each strand and binding them together with a pale blue ribbon at the base of her neck. When she finally emerged from the room she wore a white blouse and Prussian blue skirt, which flowed majestically across the wooden floorboards. When she entered the kitchen she found Patrick busily working away at the chopping board once more. She smiled to herself.
Patrick turned around, "Ah, Christine, I thought you'd drowned in there! I almost felt inclined to come to your rescue." He grinned cheekily at her.
Her eyes winked in amusement as she played along with his banter, "my dear knight in shining armour, what would I ever do without you?"
"Stay locked in your tower for ever and a day."
Christine's face fell. Patrick didn't realize it at the time, but that small sentiment had hit home with Christine considerably; he could not have been truer. He had saved her in his own way, if it had not been for that night in the Inn, Christine was sure she would have been on the brink of insanity. He had freed her from her marriage with Raoul; she was no longer somebody's trophy.
"Christine, are you alright?" Patrick went to place a reassuring hand on her shoulder, but stopped himself. His hand fell limp at his side.
Christine wiped away a stray tear, "I'm fine Patrick, honestly. I was…" she paused, unsure of whether she should confess the truth about her reflections, of how indebted she felt to him. "I just feel like I owe you so much, I came to you a stranger and you lifted me from one of the darkest places I've ever known. In a way, you saved me Patrick; you saved me from myself, from my marriage with Raoul, my own indecision. I don't know how I can ever thank-you."
"Oh, Christine," he took a step towards her. The gap between them narrowed, and Christine suddenly felt very nervous; her eyelids fluttered, hiding her eyes behind her long lashes. He reached towards her, the tips of his fingers brushing the soft skin of her upper arm, sending a spark of electricity emanating from his touch throughout her body. She took a stumbling step back, her mouth falling slightly agape. His brilliant green eyes widened considerably as he quickly grasped her hand in his to prevent her from leaving and pulled her closer to him.
"You felt it, didn't you?" She dumbly shook her head, refusing to acknowledge to sudden and growing attraction she felt between herself and he.
"Damn it Christine!" He grabbed her shoulders and shook her roughly once, unable to contain his irrefutable feelings.
"Why do you continue to deny it? We have been together for months; I have stayed by your side and watched the ill-fates that have befallen you. I have been there when you wept, for the infidelity of your worthless husband, and I-I have felt…" he paused, desperation and nervousness overpowering his features, his brows knitted in anguish as he let his heart pour out to this woman. "I have felt more than I ever thought I could feel for one woman. I don't know how it happened, and I don't know why I feel this way Christine, but I'll be damned if I'm wrong that you don't feel it too. It wasn't a mere coincidence that we met in my Inn that night, it was fate!"
Christine lifted her eyes to meet his, searching for deception, but all she found was adoration, a growing love that even she had begun to feel the presence of. Patrick's eyes began to crinkle in a smile, she felt his warm breath upon her forehead, his lips were… No! This wasn't right! Suddenly she felt claustrophobic; he was too close, there was no air, she needed to get away!
She pulled away from Patrick's grasp, "I'm sorry Patrick… I-I can't do this!"
She pushed past him, a cutting knife falling to the floor with a clatter where it spun slowly to s top. Patrick watched her go with growing pain in his eyes, "Oh, Christine…"
XxXxXxX
A soft knock was heard on the door. Patrick lifted his head from his arms as a shy Christine stepped timidly into the room. A glass of amber liquid sat near Patrick's hand, making Christine all the more nervous. He blinked at her in disbelief, slowly registering her appearance. He shook his head and coughed dryly;
"Christine."
"Patrick, I wanted to apologize… for before."
Patrick waved his hand with a sigh, and stood from the chair, rubbing the stubble on his chin wearily. "No, there is no need for an apology on your behalf. It is I, who should apologize. I shouldn't have said the things that I said, it was inappropriate of me… but it does not change the way I feel about you, Christine. What I spoke of was the truth."
Christine shied away from him, "Patrick, you have been very good to me, and I appreciate the sacrifices you have made on my behalf… we've built a beautiful friendship," Christine watched as the hopefulness held within his steady gaze was crushed in an instant by her words. "But that's all it can ever be for me; a friendship."
He looked at her pleadingly, "you haven't given us a chance, Christine, I can make you happy," he took in her distressed look, "is there no hope?"
She stared at the floor, unable to lift her gaze to meet the desperation in his eyes.
Patrick sighed resignedly. "There's no changing your mind then? Is this to be your final decision?"
Christine lifted a warm hand to her friend's cheek as a tear freed itself from her lashes, "I'm afraid so," she replied softly, allowing her hand to stroke his cheek softly before falling to her side once more.
"The truth is Patrick, that I love someone, more than any person on earth is capable of loving. He made me who I am, he was what made my soul complete before the broken pieces went missing. He was all I had." A tear slid gracefully down her cheek.
"You speak of his as though he is dead."
Christine's breath hitched in her lungs. "He is Patrick, he is." It was the first time Christine had ever confessed to somebody the feelings she harboured for her fallen angel.
"Then why do you cling to the past Christine? Why do you condemn yourself to loneliness, when there is somebody who loves you?"
"Oh Patrick, don't you understand? I have already lost the one for me, I can never love another."
"But you can be happy Christine! Love grows, it does not simply exist, it needs to be nurtured. We can be happy Christine, can't you see that?"
"No, Patrick. You deserve somebody who can love you unconditionally, somebody else..."
"I don't want anybody else! I want you, Christine!" He tried to pull her into a kiss, but she drew away frightfully; panicking at his desperation and frustration.
"Please don't make me do this, Patrick!"
She didn't even spare him a look as she fled from the room, her heart a raging torment of emotions. The thudding of her heart emanated in her ears so loudly that she didn't even hear Patrick's desperate plea after her. When will you stop running, Christine?
The front door slammed loudly behind her, but she couldn't hear it amongst the ringing in her ears, the pounding of her heart. She didn't know where she was going, she ran blindly, turning down streets and alleyways, avoiding trampling carriages and street hooligans, before she collapsed on a bench, her chest heaving with each painful breath. She closed her eyes, working frantically to slow her racing heart, lest it leap right out of her chest. The sounds of the streets and market place greeted her, its lively bustle and bartering oddly calming to her nerves.
The jingle of a shop bell tinkling sounded behind her.
"Ah! If it is not the Maestro himself, Monsieur Deveraux!"
Christine's eyes shot open. Monsieur Deveraux? E. Deveraux? She stilled her breath, waiting silently in anticipation.
"Mr. Hurst." A man's curt and harmonic voice reached her ears.
"I hear congratulations are in order, sir. What a fine accomplishment; to be so successful in your debut into opera business!"
"Indeed sir."
"Well, what shall we have for you today? Parchment? Ink? I had a fine new metronome delivered this very morning."
"No, I require only a new eagle feather quill, two bottles of crimson ink, and two reams of music-stave parchment."
Crimson ink? Stave parchment? Christine felt sick as she listened to the mysterious man with the melodious voice make his demands. It was a few moments before the sound of coins clattering on a glass top preceded, "Thank-you and good day to you sir."
The doorbell tinkled again, and the man stepped out from the shop onto the pavement. He paused, before his light footsteps continued down the street.
Christine spun around quickly on the bench, blinded by a sudden flash of light that reflected harshly off the white mask of the man walking ten meters behind her. His black cloak billowed around his muscular form and he wore nothing but a poet's shirt underneath, a black fedora adorning his head. He seemed to be moving in slow motion, each graceful stride taking an eternity to pass, and the world stopped in that moment, no other sound could be heard bar the faint tapping of his dress shoes upon the cobble-stones. The ground tilted underneath her, the bench she sat upon spun, and the entire world seemed to be coming down around her as Christine gasped, "Oh my God… Erik"
Suddenly the bile Christine had been suppressing rose to her throat, and she put her head between her knees and vomited. She vomited until she was certain there was nothing left inside of her, bar the utter turmoil and torment. The sun was too hot, sweat dripped heavily from her face, and the last thing she remembered was the brilliancy of his white mask before her eyes clouded over and the world went dark.
XxXxXxX
Christine…
Christine…
"Christine!"
Christine blinked her eyes slowly, the world steadily coming into focus. She sat up with a gasp, "Erik!"
Madame Giry put a damp cloth to her forehead, pushing her back down onto the sofa she resided on. She turned her head slightly and saw Patrick and Meg standing near the doorway, watching on worriedly.
"Shush, Christine, you're alright now, just hush." She sponged softly at her forehead, soaking up the beads of perspiration forming once more upon Christine's brow. The poor girl was shaking terribly despite the heat in the room.
Christine tried to sit up again, regardless of Madame Giry's attempts to keep her lying down. "No, Madame Giry! I saw him! I saw him, I swear! It was him, Madame Giry, it was him!" Patrick frowned immensely, trying to comprehend what Christine was saying. He turned to Meg for explanation, but was confronted by the same look of incomprehension. Madame Giry's brows knitted together in anguish.
"Meg, please fetch me some more water and blankets. Monsieur Raynaud, could you please go to the market and purchase some ginger?" She spoke softly, gazing worriedly at the evident fret upon Christine's face.
Meg left the room straight away, but Patrick lingered, reluctant to leave Christine's side. "Monsieur please!" Madame Giry barked. Patrick gazed one last time at Christine, and left the room swiftly.
"Now, child, tell me what happened."
Christine shivered; sweat dripping down into her eyes. She blinked away the saltiness and stared into Madame Giry's face. "I saw him Madame Giry, I saw Erik!" She barely whispered the words, but Madame Giry's face drained of all colour, her mouth hanging slightly agape. There was no concealing the truth now.
"Christine…"
"But, no, it couldn't have been… Erik is dead," Christine looked pleadingly at her, "Isn't he?"
Madame Giry closed her eyes and breathed deeply, her breath coming in shaky gasps. Curse you Erik! I warned you! She opened them and looked pityingly into Christine's eyes, trying to convey the regret and remorse she felt over telling her daughter such a horrifying lie.
"Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry."
"No," she protested weakly, her eyes hollowed as whatever strength she had thought to possess, left her then, "no… It can't be!"
All Madame Giry could do was nod silently; there was nothing she could say.
A/N Okay, considering I went to the mammoth effort of writing you guys a nice, long chapter, I expect everyone to review! Reviews are what make it worth the effort, and I really want feedback from EVERYONE, even if you haven't reviewed before! If you want to make suggestions for the next chapter, feel free and I'll be sure to review-reply to all of you. Until next time, sorry to leave you in such a cliffie, Cheers!