XXX
Somehow she had fallen asleep against that monster's chest, which was rather impressive. He smelled like…death. But she had slept through most of the ride, until she was abruptly awoken as she felt two long-fingered hands lifting her off of the horse.
Much to her protests, he swung her over his shoulder as if she were nothing.
She considered delivering a kick to his groin, but as she was bound and blind, that might have caused injury to herself, as well.
She heard the sound of snow crunching under his boots and that of a door opening. She could tell she was in a house, or building of some sort.
He dropped her onto a chaise lounge unceremoniously, removing her blindfold. "You will stay here, I will be back, soon," He lit a candle, and disappeared into another room.
Roxanne sat up, groggily observing her surroundings. She was in a parlor, of some sorts. The furnishings were dark, it was quite obvious that the owner was wealthy, it had been a long time since she was in a room so richly decorated.
Carefully rising—her balance was somewhat upset by having her hands bound behind her back—she walked around the room, observing everything.
Suddenly, a loud, jarring sound came from the other room; it was so loud that she jumped several feet in the air.
She cursed irritably, staring at the door her masked captor had disappeared behind.
The noise, she recognized, was that of a pipe organ. How weird.
The jarring note was followed by several more experimental strokes, and then someone began to play.
The song began softly, it was faint, weak, almost inaudible, but filled with so much misery that it made her ache. It was amazing, such a small, delicate noise could be filled with such emotion.
The music seemed to weave in and out about the air, like some sort of electric energy, like that before a storm.
Then it burst into life, loud movements that reeked of hate, betrayal, sorrow. Angry crescendos rose, followed by anguished crashes, it was like a squall at sea.
It was too much to bear; it hypnotized her, the melody infusing her with a strange sort of nervous energy. She wanted to weep, to scream, to fight. But most of all she wanted the music to stop; it was too beautiful. Too terrible It was not meant for human ears, no human could handle the full force of its emotion. She knew if she heard the song twice, it would drive her mad. Human hands did not engineer this song.
The song was building in volume and in emotion, and finally, in one great climax, it ended just as abruptly as it had begun.
Roxanne's chest heaved, she felt out of breath, dear God, had he wrote that? Was he even human? Perhaps, he was an angel, for it would take divine inspiration to make music like that. It was as if the sorrow of God had been channeled through that organ for a few fleeting minutes.
She collapsed on the lounge, running her fingers through her curly hair, flopping her head against the side.
In a few more minutes, the Phantom returned, he seemed more composed. More like the Opera Ghost that the rumors had spoken of, terrible and imperious, able to kill with one look.
He smirked, noticing the look on her face, "I see you heard Erik's music, eh? Did you like it?"
Roxanne paused; for some reason, she found the rhetorical question to be oddly disturbing.
"What is your name, girl?" He questioned, his lilting voice carefully nonchalant.
Her name? She wondered, dazedly, oh! Oh, yes, "R-Roxanne de Winter."
"Your accent is not French," He said, "Where are you from?"
Something about his voice was…compelling. Hypnotic. Why he was asking her all of these questions didn't occur to her, to refuse to answer was unthinkable. "I'm from England," She answered.
"Very well, Mademoiselle Roxanne de Winter of England, you are going to explain to me how and why you were on the stage in place of Christine Daaè," He placed his hands behind his back, felinely relaxed, staring at her expectantly.
Roxanne shook her head, as if coming out of a dream, she crossed her arms across her chest. "Why should I tell you?!" She demanded.
The Phantom made an irritated noise, "If you would like to live, then you ought to answer my questions."
Roxanne growled disgustedly, "Very well," she took a deep breath, "I work with the gendarmerie, doing espionage work, when needed. The Comte Philippe de Chagny contacted my superiors, explaining the threat of the Opera Ghost, who was terrorizing his younger brother's fiancée and was blackmailing the owners of the Opera Garnier.
"I'm unsure of how exactly it all worked out, but with the help of the Vicomte, the gendarmes set up a plan to capture you. I was to go on stage in place of Ms. Daaè and I was to keep you on stage long enough for the gendarmes to arrest you. They intended to arrest you just before the last scene, when you thought you had gotten away with it all. If pressed, they would have killed you.
"But during the "Point of No Return," I knew I had been found out, the look on your face on stage was impossible to misread. I panicked and pulled off your mask, hoping the gendarmes would do something—"
"—Hoping they would shoot me," The Phantom cut in, matter-of-factly.
"Well, yes," She said, staring at him curiously, gauging his reaction.
"You cannot read me, girl, so, give up, right now," He said, a small smile playing across his lips, "But, tell me, why is a young Englishwoman working with the gendarmerie in such a dangerous position?"
She stared at him stonily, not responding for several seconds, before finally opening her mouth, "Monsieur, what are you going to do to me?" She put her hands on her hips, her mouth drawn into a thin line.
The Phantom laughed, she wished he wouldn't, it was a dreadful noise, "Oh, my! You're quite the spitfire." He seemed to be genuinely amused by her, which only infuriated her all the more.
"I don't see what you find so funny, if anything, I would think you would be in a murderous rage or whatever scorned lovers are—"
"Do not mistake my calm for serenity!" His voice seemed to come very everywhere in the room, Roxanne jumped. For a moment, his mask slipped and he seemed to be a different man, altogether, but only for a moment. He composed himself, adjusting his mask, "I must warn you, girl, if you are to keep your skin, you must learn to hold your tongue."
That seemed to sound dangerously like she was to be in prolonged contact with this man…if he could be called that.
"But, I shall answer your question. I obviously cannot let you go—" He held up a hand for Roxanne to be silent, "—But I won't kill you, if you don't push me. I don't believe in killing women. However, if you prove yourself worthy, I may allow you to go free of my company."
She leapt up, spluttering angrily, "How dare you! What gives you the right to keep me here?"
"Victor's Right. I captured you; you are a prisoner of war," He explained in dulcet tones, he could have used this tone to make love to her instead of explain to her that she no longer was a free person.
"'Victor?'" She scoffed, "Your's is a position I would hardly call victorious. From where I stand it seems you barely escaped by the skin of your teeth!"
"Mademoiselle, I am in no mood for your impertinence," He ground out.
"I will explain to you the rules of our relationship, right now," He sat down on a chair and folded his hands together. "One: you are my subordinate. As long as you live in my house, you are my servant and will be treated as such. Two: you are not to leave this property without my permission. If you do so, you will soon find that the consequences to irritating me can be grave. Three: You hold no ties to your former life. Any contact from previous family members, lovers, or friends is strictly forbidden. Four: never touch my masks or my music. If you touch my music, I will not hesitate to kill you."
She ground her teeth, "So I am to be your slave?"
"Well, yes. But, I will treat you kindly as long as you obey me. If you follow my orders to my satisfaction, then you will be rewarded with more freedoms. The more you obey me, the more freedoms I give you. The more you disobey me, the less freedoms you will have. Understood?"
"And what exactly am I to do as your slave?" She asked stiffly, crossing her legs.
"I will put your training to work…" He noticed her disgusted look, "…as a spy, for me."
Roxanne visibly relaxed, "And who am I to spy on?"
"The de Chagny family," He said with a smile, "Amongst a few odd jobs. You see, I have no wife or servants, and I am somewhat inept at domestic maintenance. Between lessons and the training I will put you through before I reintroduce you to the world, you will perform minor perfunctory household duties, preparing my meals—which are few and far apart—keeping the house clean, et cetera."
Roxanne was trying very hard to keep her temper under control. "So, you're just going to keep me here to do as you wish, as if I were nothing more than property?!"
"Mademoiselle de Winter, you have, no doubt, obtained many enemies in your line of work, and had to obtained some before that to be in alliance with the gendarmerie—for no socially secure woman would sink to such a position—I don't see why you have a problem with this. Your needs will be met, and I shall pay you handsomely for your…inconvenience. You shall find that I treat those who respect me with much generosity."
"But—" She began.
He held up his hand, once more, "Tut, tut, no more. This has been a long evening and no doubt, you are tired. Your room is on down the hall, there are several nightgowns in the wardrobe that should be about your size. Once you are decently dressed, however, I am afraid I must shackle you to your bed. You have exactly twenty minutes before I come to your quarters to do so." He waved for her to leave.
"You conceited son of a bitch!" She snarled, "I am not a child!"
"Really? I had not noticed. Now go, my patience wears thin," He gave her an icy stare that left her speechless.
With an infuriated sound, she stalked down the hallway.
XXX
Once she was gone, Erik exhaled a long breath; he went to the stand on the other side of the room and poured himself a very liberal amount of brandy. He collapsed in a chair, taking a long draught of the intoxicating substance.
He stared at the carpeted floor for a long time, not really thinking of anything. Just staring. He didn't want to think. If he began to think, then his thoughts would return to her. And that was something he couldn't do. Not with that walking reminder in the other room, a near-carbon copy of his sweet angel. It would be too tempting.
"Why didn't you run away that day in my lair?" His mind returned to the day Christine had pulled off his mask, she had braved his face! He remembered the words she had uttered, as if they had just escaped from her beautiful mouth: 'if ever again I shiver when I look at you, it will be because I am thinking of the splendor of your genius!'
He ground his teeth, "Curse you, boy, why couldn't you have left her alone? You could have had any chorus girl you wanted, but you had to choose her. You had to choose the only woman who could ever stand to look at me."
With a frustrated cry, he threw his glass at the wall, it made a satisfactory noise as it shattered against the wall, splashing it's liquid all across the wallpaper.
Crying softly, he cradled his head in his hands, "Christine…Oh, God, I love you, even now, I love you, so much."
XXX