So the World Will Never Find You
Enter Standard Disclaimer Here.
xx
"Enter," Erik said, not looking up from his desk, or what functioned as a desk, specifically an uneven stack of books. The manor was in a state of grave disrepair, a state Erik was striving to remedy. Jacques Durand, his newly hired butler, pushed open the door with a ginger touch. Monsieur Durand had two key identifiers: one, none of the others on his staff or the crew had the nerve to approach him, and two, he wore an atrocious cologne, so noxious in its vapors that Erik knew he was coming from a hundred yards off.
He supposed the staff's reluctance stemmed from the incident last week where the master mason had utterly mangled his design for the front façade. Erik had descended into a blind rage unlike any since Persia. Such willful destruction of beauty—the beauty he labored to create—offended him to his very core. When he was at last aware of himself, the master mason was on the floor spitting out fragments of his teeth and two of the mason's brawny compatriots were holding him against a wall.
A subtle itch wormed its way under his skin, breaking the cocoon of focus that he could have immersed himself in for untold months or years. The itch had a face and a name and she was pulling him back to her, a gyrfalcon on his mistress's tether.
The conflict had been resolved with healthy compensation for the master mason, well bribery, to put a fine point on it, and he was dismissed from the project. Erik shook his head, filling out the ledger with a flourish. He would not sacrifice his vision for haste. The stone and materials were bought, the rotted roof replaced. There was time, on later trips, to complete the work to his satisfaction. He slammed the ledger closed and rose to his feet, towering over the middle-aged butler, who was nervously tugging at the hem of his tight-fitting waistcoat. One of the tottering stacks of books collapsed in a heap of paper and dust and Erik repressed a snarl as one landed squarely on his foot.
"State your business, Monsieur. I have a train to catch." Erik longed for the cold, quiet solitude of his home, and his beloved. Without the perfection of her voice and the beauty of her face to sustain him, he was starving.
"O—Of course, Monsieur Rousseau. Of course. I won't be but a moment. S—Some of the staff have expressed a certain . . . dissatisfaction."
"Are their wages inadequate?" ice frosted the words.
Monsieur Durand's already pale complexion bleached further, a fine dew of perspiration shimmering in the light pouring from the window. Sampled at the proximity of less than a meter, Monsieur Durand's cologne threatened to make him physically ill.
"No, Monsieur, in fact, you have been most generous. B—But-"
"Have any of the staff been inconvenienced or harassed in any way?"
"No, Monsieur, but-"
"Spit it out!" The incident with the master mason still left a bad taste in his mouth.
"While you have offered a fine opportunity, there are some who would like to seek employment elsewhere."
Monsieur Durand expelled a heavy sigh, the waxed tips of his iron gray mustache wilting. Erik's jaw tightened. Good, hardworking folk fleeing from the monster in the castle. His leather gloves squeaked in protest as his fists clenched.
"I see." The words emerged sharp and compressed, bursting out around the fist of anger tight in his chest.
"In that case, I expect to have the empty positions filled by the time of my return."
"When will that be, Monsieur?" Monsieur Durand's high-pitched quaver grated on Erik's nerves.
"I will inform you of the dates upon my return to Paris. Good day, Monsieur." Erik donned cape and fedora, swept down the hall and out the door to the waiting brougham cab.
xxx
The small hours of the night found Erik at last scaling the steps to the Opera Populaire. Locked doors, grandiose architecture and sleeping ballet rats slipped past him unheeded. His sole focus was in the next bed . . . terror clutched his heart at the empty bed, the corners folded with the maid's usual military precision.
Where is she?
Erik hastened to Minette's chambers and . . . relief loosened his joints at the sight of her, tenderness flooded his being. She looked like a kitten curled on the rug, the little Giry across the game board in a similar state. He longed to carry her in his arms and tuck her snug into her bed, but he checked the impulse. Instead, he loosened the ties of his cape and draped its rich folds over her.
"Pleasant dreams, my Angel," he murmured.
XXX
Christine woke to the lush, warm crumple of silk enveloping her, and a rich scent in her nostrils. She hummed a little in contentment and breathed deeply of that intoxicating aroma, smelling smoke, leather and a spicy, masculine musk. Her eyelids cracked open, seeking the source. A cloak was draped over her, heavy black cloth lined with white silk, deliciously warm and sumptuously elegant. Whatever sleepy indolence enveloped her vanished like a morning mist in the wind.
"Erik," she whispered.
He had returned! He had been here, in this room! Lazy joy unfolded in her heart and she pressed his cloak to her nose, nuzzling the rich fabric and sucking in breaths of his scent until her head swam. The tenderness behind the gesture touched Christine. The roses were beautiful and a symbol of their bond, but this . . . this meant he cared for her comfort and well-being, not only the spectral link of music between them. As her Angel, he had been solicitously aware of her 'mortal needs' for rest and food, but she wondered if her mysterious, exacting Maestro would be similar. She glanced at the high window. Grey predawn light filtered in. With the knowledge of her Maestro's return dangling over her head, there was no way she could waste more hours sleeping!
Christine cut a sly glance at Meg's slumbering form. True, there had been tears and huffing fits as her tale of her Angel emerged, but Meg was much too good-hearted and genuine to remain angry for long. Her offer of a game was tantamount to the proverbial olive branch. As hours ticked by, Meg's irritation faded into curiosity. Imagine, Christine's Angel of Music and the dreaded Phantom of the Opera was the same person!
I would like to be a fly on the wall when Meg confronts her mother about Erik!
Christine smiled, affection suffusing her at the messy snarl of Meg's mop of blond bangs hanging in her eyes. Her friend was dying to meet Erik, perhaps enough to provoke the Opera Ghost's wrath by entering the sanctity of Box Five at the opening a few nights away. Christine smothered a giggle in the folds of Erik's lovely cloak.
Her giddy joy was dampened a bit by the thought of his holiday away from the Opera.
What a jealous, selfish little imp you are, Christine Marie Daae! The chiding voice in her head took on the accented tones of Madame Giry's voice.
Erik is a very busy man . . .
"Run along a play, Christine. I have work to do," Christine said sourly in a poor imitation of the incomparable timbre of Erik's voice.
That was it. His leave-taking made her feel young and in the way, a child to be indulged and cosseted then tidily ignored. She had never felt worthy of her Angel's tutelage, and certainly not the razor-like focus of Erik's undiluted genius. Christine felt unworthy, but selfishly glutted on his attention, craved his voice like a potent drug. She confused even herself at times.
The fabric of his cloak was soft under her cheek, a tangible remnant of his presence. Her devilish impulse to deny him rose up again, augmented by childish pique. Warring desires tangled into a confused knot in her heart.
She wanted to see him, sing for him, admire that stern angle of his jaw, the bewildering beauty of his eyes. She wanted to defy him, challenge him.
Christine buried her face in Erik's cloak to stifle a sigh.
XXX
Erik's mood was too fractious and irritated to concentrate on playing, so he paced up and down the length of the small music room, waiting for Christine to arrive. Lefavre was preparing to retire. His note accompanying this month's salary had been overlaid with weary tones, a longing for a simpler time, perhaps the farm in Australia where he had spent a summer as a boy. Australia! The other side of the world! How ironic that as soon as Erik had found something to spend his ill-gotten salary on, there was the threat that it would no longer come!
Erik growled low in his throat, reminded of that fatuous master mason and the flighty staff. And this was the human race, the pinnacle of creation!
The tread of a step reached his ear and he turned, heart in his throat, for Christine to appear in the doorway. He smoothed his hair, tugged at the diamond stick-pin in his cravat. Minette materialized, clad in her somber black. Erik's heart plummeted to his toes. An inarticulate panic clutched him.
"Is—is she all right?" Minette hesitated, then nodded. Erik frowned.
"Where is she?" Minette looked distinctly uncomfortable, ramrod straight and fingers restlessly tracing the crucifix he'd given her. Nonplussed, Erik's hands fisted at his sides, ringing with tension.
"Minette? Where is Christine?" He thickened his voice into a warm, coaxing shape, eyes riveted to the minutest change in her face. Still, Minette hesitated.
"Pardon, Erik, but Christine says she doesn't want to see you today."
Erik's whirring brain dissected this sentence and observed it from every angle.
"But . . . why?" he asked, dimly registering the bleak pain in his voice, the betrayed confusion of a wronged apprentice.
Raw sympathy filled Minette's eyes, diffusing her face with its gentle glow, like a medieval icon. Erik hardened under her gaze; sympathy was akin to pity in his eyes—wholly unacceptable.
"Don't try to spare me, Minette. What did she say? Does she fear the Opera Ghost's wrath? Or is it this?" he pointed emphatically to his mask. His cursed face! Minette spread her hands in an expressive shrug. That knack for theatricality had served her well as prima ballerina, and now as ballet mistress.
"I truly don't know. She was devastated when you left. I have no idea why she would refuse to see you now. All she said was: 'Tell Erik that I don't want to see him.' She would say no more to me."
Erik processed this, his ragged breathing echoing in his ears. His chest felt unbearably tight, as if held in a vise. The prospect of never seeing her again was misery of the acutest kind, his own private Hell.
His mind blazed through possibilities. He played back every word, gesture and expression that had transpired between Christine and himself during their lesson. True, she had seemed wounded when he informed her of his leaving, but he had dismissed it . . .
The formless panic was calcifying into prickly spires of anger.
Why was she torturing him like this? He hadn't thought such cruelty existed in her. Minette's voice reached for him at a distance, ringing tinny in his ears.
"Now Erik, don't overreact-"
"Overreact? Oh, certainly not, Minette!" he burst out, exposing his teeth in a macabre imitation of a smile.
"I will follow her instructions to the letter. She will never see me again."
"Erik, wait! Please!" Minette shouted, lunging forward and clutching his forearms, as if afraid he would evaporate straight through the walls like the ghost he claimed to be. A small, amused corner of himself observed that Minette, the hard-nosed skeptic, truly believed in his skills as a magician.
"Don't do this. Christine is still a child. I don't understand her reasons, but I know she meant you no harm. Don't rush off in a huff and do something you'll regret."
Erik's jaw tightened. Poor Minette, soothing his factious moods and tempering his sweeping proclamations. The glaring subtext of her words referenced another overreaction, one that had pushed him across continents.
"Whether you recognize it or not, that child cares for you." Erik tried to tear himself free, but Minette's grip was implacable and he didn't want to add harming a woman who had the misfortune of being his friend to his list of sins.
"Don't. Just . . . don't, Minette. Don't say that to me." his voice quavered, warbling with emotion.
She cares for me, he thought darkly, how sweet. But she will never love me. She will never yearn as I yearn.
"She makes herself ill waiting for my presence, then refuses to see me. And they call me unpredictable," he grumbled.
Minette laughed softly, relief diffusing her features. If he had enough good humor left to joke, then the likelihood of a tantrum drastically dropped. It was a mathematical theorem, Erik noted with some dryness. Minette patted his cheek with a sisterly sort of affection.
"I'm certain she'll come around." Erik heaved a massive sigh and smiled reluctantly.
"Let us hope so. I left her my cloak and I'd rather not brave the winter without it." He expected laughter, or a similarly witty riposte on how foolish he was for leaving such a valuable garment in Christine's uncertain custody, but Minette was frozen, unblinking eyes fixed on the piano.
"Minette?" Erik asked, following the trajectory of her gaze. His gut clenched. Resting innocently in a shaft of sunlight sat a small velvet box. She tore her eyes away and slowly swiveled her head to meet his eye.
"Erik," she said, very calm, "you seem to have omitted a few vital details. Where exactly did you go on your recent outing?"
XXX
When Madame Giry returned, the mournful reproach in her gaze did not fill Christine with a sense of feminine power, or even gratification in her independence. Instead, she was mortified.
"What did he say, Madame? Was he angry?" Christine whispered.
"Was that what you wanted?" Madame shot back.
"No! Of course not!" Christine stroked the fabric of his cloak, plucking an imaginary speck of lint from its velvety surface. Madame sighed and the chair across from Christine creaked as she sat, with an artful rustle of skirts. She felt the earnest weight of Madame's gaze and squirmed under its directness.
"Look at me, Christine."
Christine darted a glance up and Madame captured her chin in a light, cool grip. In the smothered light of the gas lamp, Madame's face looked softer, younger. Love for her warden pierced Christine's heart. She was stern and taciturn, but Christine had no doubt that Madame loved her as her own daughter.
"Then why did you, ma petit? I can think of no good reason. Help me understand why you would deliberately avoid him. If not anger, then is it fear? Did he do something to frighten you?"
Christine wanted to blurt out that his very presence filled her with such delicious, breathless fear—but it was not the sort of fear that terrorized. It was a sweet anticipation, a tension that pulled somewhere deep within her.
"Erik, he . . . he's so . . . powerful." Christine said, unable to articulate the particular chemistry she felt near him. The air crackled with blistering energy, intense significance was laden in every glance and gesture. Madame's brow arched.
"Powerful?" she repeated. Christine nodded, embarrassed color stinging her cheeks.
"His presence swallows me, and when he looks at me, I feel like I can't breathe."
Something altered subtly in Madame's expression, but Christine could not identify what it was. Her grip on Christine's chin tightened, eyes blazing with conviction.
"Christine . . . Erik may seem like a romantic figure, but for all his talents, he is a man like any other. A man with a very sad, dark past. Erik is not only powerful, but dangerous. Don't forget that, my dear. Ever."
Terror clutched Christine, her heart, her throat, her belly.
"What do you mean, Madame? Do you want me to reconcile with him or never see him again? I thought you were his friend!"
"I am his friend. But befriending Erik is like befriending a wolf—I admire him and I love him, in a careful, wary sort of way. But I also would never allow him into a sheepfold."
"And I'm the lamb?" Christine asked, sarcasm sharpening her tone to a shining edge. Madame released her chin and grasped both Christine's hands, squeezing with earnest fervor.
"You are young, Christine. Very young, and innocent. I'm simply asking for you to guard your heart with him. It is precious." Tenderness surged through the pique and the apprehension Madame had roused. In this, as with everything else, she was worried only for Christine's welfare.
"I will, Madame. I promise." Christine said solemnly.
XXX
The hours ticked by slowly in the interminable night of Erik's underground kingdom. None of his usual pursuits appealed to him. He couldn't play, design or draw, not with this infernal anxiety gnawing at his belly. He glanced at his clock for the thousandth time. Erik smothered a growl and leapt to his feet to continue pacing like cat in a cage. He hated this feeling! He hated the tension in the air that cut like a knife, eyes watching him, waiting for him to make a mistake, loose his temper. He expected it from his mother and later, Luciana, but certainly never his beloved Christine!
Erik uttered a string of profanity in a particularly musical Cantonese dialect, raking a nervous hand through his hair. And that infernal Madame Giry! She had drilled him in the chest with the silver point of that cane of hers, stating in very plain terms that he was not, under any conceivable circumstance, to burden Christine with the depth of his affections when she was only fifteen, or sixteen, or seventeen for that matter. Erik had resented this ultimatum. From there, it had degenerated into a shouting match the likes of which had not happened between them in over twenty years. A fleeting admiration had warmed him. Minette was a lioness, fighting with tooth and claw for her cub.
"She had no right to interfere! It was not as if I was actually going to propose to her! It was only a fantasy, after all and Christine is still so young . . ."
Who are you trying to fool, my friend? Nadir's dry, faintly caustic voice echoed in Erik's inner ear. You love the little Daae. It is only a matter of time before Christine's singing coach becomes her adoring suitor.
Between the two women, Erik was faintly amazed that his hair wasn't as white as driven snow. Erik glanced in one of the mirrors, grimacing at the hideous dual mien that stared back at him. He was no longer a young man, pushing forty. A few threads of silver streaked his black hair, and the harshest light of day revealed faint wrinkles around his eye and mouth. His right side was repulsive in any light and had endured the ravages of time with obscene health.
"Enough," he said aloud, his voice bouncing off the cave's walls back to him. He needed focus and preparation. No moods or tantrums today. Christine needed to see that he could be accommodating, a gentleman.
If nothing else, he was that.
An hour later, he stood in an empty room with despair beginning to claw at his hard-won composure. For one wild moment, he cursed his beloved.
If you had not come, I would have lived and died here in peace. I was content! I was bloody well content with my lot! Why did you come to torment me with what I can never have?
Then she appeared and the raging storm of defensive vitriol mellowed into the gentle kiss of spring rain over parched ground. He stiffened under her gentle perusal, breath and speech beyond him. How was it possible that she had grown more beautiful in the scant weeks of his absence? But she had performed a miracle and grown lovelier, even clad in the drab bolts of brown cloth that had the impudence to call itself a gown. She deserved silk, velvet, strings of diamonds, ropes of pearls! Content he might have been before her, but he hadn't been alive. The twenty-seven years before he met her were nothing but bland purgatory, a colorless limbo. Christine Daae was his heart and breath, voice and life.
Erik shook himself, realizing that he had been staring at her—with his mouth hanging open, by God—and she waiting politely for him to say something. Something about the shifting in her posture, the wide, unblinking doe eyes, told him that she was expecting his anger.
He was angry, and hurt.
Above all he wanted to know why. He would be very careful never to make that misstep again. He had an iron-clad memory; he would not forget. He would cut out his beating heart and give it to her if that was what she wanted. Anything she wanted. A faint, cynical voice mocked him for this abject slavery of heart and soul to a slip of a girl barely in the flower of her womanhood. The mighty Phantom was on his knees, wide open for the killing blow, and she was holding the knife. Holding the knife poised over his heart, and didn't even know it.
Say something, you idiot!
"Good afternoon, Christine," he blurted. A hesitant smile touched the inviting curve of her mouth and she ducked her head bashfully.
"Good afternoon, Maestro. I've brought you your cloak. Th—Thank you for . . . thank you for it. Madame said that your business went well. I'm glad."
Erik carefully extracted the cloak from her grip without touching her. He must be very careful not to alarm her in any fashion. As he did so, a faint tendril of her scent tickled his nose and the cloth held the trapped warmth of her body. His fevered imagination conjured her stretched naked upon the cloak, eyes heavy with desire, breathing his name as he . . .
"Yes," he forced himself into speech, clawing free from the silken bonds of his fantasy.
Dangerous things, fantasies.
Something charged the air, the gnawing anxiety he felt, the calcified anger raked across his skin. The power dynamic was brutally clear between them. He was hers to twist and mangle and shatter with a word, a gesture. It was not a feeling he relished.
"My business was satisfactory. I was . . . surprised to hear that you did not wish to continue with our lessons. Were you feeling poorly, my dear?" he asked, his eyes blisteringly intent on her face, on the slightest change in expression. Her pale hands clasped in front of her, Christine's gaze remained studiously fixed on the ground.
"Yes . . . no." she whispered. Erik set his cloak aside and took a seat at the piano bench. He forced out a laugh even as he wanted to shake her shoulders, demand an answer.
"Which is it?" She winced at the edge in his voice. Erik was rapidly ceasing to care. He wanted to know!
"No, I wasn't ill, Maestro." Erik's visible brow lifted, mocking.
Calm. Remain calm.
"Oh? Then pray, what kept you?"
Her eyes flickered up and met his. Whatever she saw there drained every iota of color from her face, those eyes stark and hurt and innocent.
Damn her innocence! The innocence that was blinded to the wretchedness of his lust! A large part of him wanted to drown out that angry thing in his head, to soothe and coax, woo her with the undeniable power of his voice. She would respond to him with her voice. She had to. It was a compulsion she could not ignore. If not her body, then at least her voice would be one with his!
Silence roared between them.
"It doesn't matter," he snapped, dismissing the subject with a wave of his hand, "you are here now. I presume you wish to continue with our lessons?"
"Y—yes," she stuttered weakly.
"Good. Now begin. Rigoletto Act II."
He waited, pinning her in place with his gaze, daring her to protest. So much for gentleness and calm. He was a towering inferno of emotion. She waited too, waiting for the cue to a scale to loosen her voice, even a bar of accompaniment. Erik sat resolute, unmerciful. He acknowledged that he was punishing her. Hardly a way to garner a lady's trust and affections.
Christine plunged into the aria like a racehorse from the starting gate. Erik's eyes slipped closed. Even taut with nervousness, Christine's voice was undiluted perfection. Her voice would make the angels weep with joy and was his nourishment, his addiction. His own voice rose to join hers and together, they soared into the clouds, wholly unfettered.
The forbidden love of the nightingale and the white rose. The old Arabic tale drifted through the tapestry of his thoughts as his voice surged and challenged, and hers softened and melted, both striving towards ecstasy . . .
Silence throbbed around them, cocooning the two of them in an intimacy too perfect to cheapen with words.
Erik's heart ached at the sight of her face lit by joyous flame, eyes dewy, pert bosom heaving. So excruciatingly beautiful. Desire roared to life within him. When he spoke, his voice was thick with it: "Your voice is without compare, Christine. The world is your stage."
She slipped into a deep, elegant curtsey, her forehead nearly touching her knee.
"Thank you, Master." Her soft, reverent tone sent delicious shivers through him. The tension in him snapped and crackled. He had to be closer. Erik rose to his feet and floated across the floor to her side.
His beloved one, his shy Persephone, his white rose.
"Christine." The word flew from his lips and wrapped her in a silken embrace, possessive and urgent. Startled brown eyes met his own blazing blue, rosy lips parted. He produced his customary rose and offered it to her. She reached out and accepted it, brushing his hand as she did so. A shared gasp broke the air. That grazing touch wakened the nerves in his skin, as intimate as a kiss.
An angry voice chanted in his head with increasing urgency: Your student, your student, your student!
I am a glutton for punishment, he thought.
He tore his gaze from her radiant face and stared at some distant point.
"I will be watching the production this evening from Box Five."
Erik turned and swept on his cape, swathing himself in clouds of her sweet scent.
"I will sing my best for you, Maestro."
He eyed her over his shoulder, cherishing every dip and curve of her face and body.
"You always do."
xxxxxxxx
A/N: Poor Erik! Between Christine and Madame Giry what can he do? ;)
As always, this is where I beg shamelessly for reviews. I am a glutton for them!