Your Most Obedient Servant
"Thou art to me a delicious torment."
- Ralph Waldo Emerson
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Christine clutched the high, stiff neckline of her gown, as if to still the fevered pounding of her heart, cool the damp film of sweat gathered beneath the stifling dress. She sank onto the piano bench, lungs dragging in greedy breaths. Erik's absence yawned, sucking all the air from the room. Holy Virgin, these feelings churning through her, a bewildering and heady mixture of excitement and fright, educed by the avid glitter in his ever-changing eyes and his voice that raced over her skin and echoed within the very depths of her soul! He had slipped away again, robbing her of balance and breath while remaining coolly composed. Oh, how she envied that trick! Didn't he know how devastating he was to her senses, overwhelming her equilibrium?
She brought his parting gift to her nose and breathed deep of its sweet fragrance. Her passionate promise to sing her best for him was perfect truth; she would bargain her soul to make him smile! Her soul and voice belonged to him, her teacher.
Her teacher . . .
How could he simply be her teacher? Was it normal, this . . . this hunger she possessed—for the simple intoxication of his voice, for the secrets of his mind, the hopes of his heart? Certainly not!
What existed between them was more. What 'more' entailed, she had only the vaguest of inklings. But she knew she would be swallowed whole by the power of his will if she did not exert hers more often. His anger was potent and frightening, but she knew that Erik would never hurt her.
A secret smile touched her lips. If his anger led to more lessons of this intensity, Christine would be sure to provoke it at every opportunity! The fresh reminder of those incandescent moments where their voices had joined in a writhing coil sprang to her mind and Christine exhaled a shaky sigh. Raised a devout Catholic by a stern ballet mistress like Madame Giry and protected by an even sterner Angel, Christine had only a nebulous idea as to what Erik's virile presence actually meant and no proper words to categorize the sensations churning through her, a sparkling heat that made her fingertips tingle and her belly ache. The promise of it tantalized and tempted her, but she was terribly unsure.
Oh God, she was so afraid!
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"Christine?" Meg's soft voice reached her. How long had she and Erik been locked in the throes of their music? With him, time held no meaning. Christine lifted dazed eyes to the window and found the darkening shadows of dusk. The faint gargling in her belly reminded her that it had been a long time since this morning's porridge.
"Here, Meg," she replied, rising on shaky legs.
A pale head peered around the corner and Christine uttered a snort of startled laughter. Meg's beautiful hair had been replaced with a ridiculous towering wig, complete with its own model of a wrecked ship, moored between fluffy white curls. Her face was painted with thick stage cosmetics, bleaching her as pale as a ghost and exaggerating the lines of brow and lash with heavy black. Her mouth was painted in a pert bow, and the dress . . . she was drowning in flounces and ruffled petticoats, all in various pastel hues.
Ill Muto, Christine thought. The winter's production.
"What happened to you? Were you mobbed by a gaggle of demented cosmeticians?" Christine teased. Meg wrinkled her nose disdainfully.
"Is that any way to speak to a Countess? Kiss my hand, you knave!" her voice was airy, and trilled in a precise imitation the Countess de Chambourg's sophisticated accent. Meg's theatricality and knack for impression had always been a secret envy of Christine's. She made friends so easily, both the corps and the chorus adored her, while they often forgot Christine's name because of her paralyzing shyness. Beyond the two Girys, there was no one in the world that cared for her—except Erik.
Christine laughed and made a show of floundering through the layers of lace fringing her sleeve. She pecked a kiss on the back of Meg's hand. Meg laughed and threaded her arm through Christine's.
"There is no way I could dance in this getup, but I wanted to try it on." She swayed, showing off the yards of pale pink fabric that formed the pleated skirt.
"Do I really look that bad?"
"I'm sure from the boxes you look like a vision, but from here . . ." Christine grimaced. Meg's lower lip painted a garish red, pouted, though her eyes gleamed with amusement. Together they made their way from the music room, delicately picking their way down the narrow spiral stairs, nearly smothered by Meg's dress.
"Maman was worried when you didn't return for supper. How was your lesson with the Phantom?"
Reminded of the intensity of their connection, Christine blushed. It terrified and humbled her . . . whatever it was that existed between her and her teacher.
"It was . . . amazing."
Meg's startlingly dark eyebrow rose, a wide smile stretching her lips. Meg pulled Christine into the store room where she began to shed her pilfered costume. While she dressed, Meg offered her some bread and cheese left over from supper.
"Amazing?" she repeated, "do tell!"
Between bites, Christine struggled to articulate what had transpired and the twisted tangle of fear and joy she felt.
"It feels like I'm . . ."
"Standing at the edge of a cliff, about to jump, and you don't know how deep the water is?" Meg supplied, eyes sparkling. Christine nodded, leaning forward.
"And when we sing together . . . I feel like I can fly. What does it mean? I feel so afraid."
"Of course it's scary. That's why they call it 'falling in love,' silly!"
XXX
When Minette appeared, brow furrowed in an expression of perplexed dismay, Erik accepted his protégé's absenteeism without a murmur. He had been a perfect beast; punishing her for his hurt feelings. What a surprise, he had pushed her away. It was a particular talent of his. Experience didn't improve the feeling, no, instead Erik felt as if he had been punched in the gut. He slumped forward, hiding his face in his hands. What was he to do if he couldn't even be her teacher?
Minette's small, cool hand alighted on his shoulder in a rare physical gesture of comfort. His throat closed and Erik covered her hand with his own. Resignation warred with grief and Erik unfolded his long limbs from their hunched, defeated position. He would hear her rejection from her own lips. Let her be the one to send him away! She owed him that, at least.
"Erik, where are you going?" Minette called after him.
"I must speak with her!"
Erik followed the peculiar sixth sense that tied him to her; the subtle inner ringing led him up, to the roof. Thick, cloying heat embraced him, the blazing afternoon light stabbing his eyes. The air was hot and torpid, a smothering blanket over the city as a long July day droned on. Christine sat at the base of Apollo's lyre, staring sightlessly across the cityscape.
"Christine."
She uttered a soft gasp as she jumped to her feet, one hand splayed at the base of her throat.
"Maestro! Wha—What are you doing here? How did you find me?" Erik shrugged.
"How is that you are able to sense my presence even if you cannot see me? We are linked, you and I, by music." Possessive heat crackled in his tone, and he glimpsed the flicker of fear in her face. Anger, hurt and sadness formed a thorny knot in his chest and he found it difficult to breathe around its shape.
He retreated a step, shifting his gaze to the city beyond in an effort to distract himself. It was so rare for him to see it under the sun's piercing light. Living so many years on the fringes of humanity, he had learned swiftly to hide under night's soft veil. The bright light revealed both the strengths and the flaws in every building, and Erik found a fresh beauty in Paris' nakedness.
"Tell me, Christine, is your health poor?" he glanced at her out of the corner of his eye, saw her pressed flat against the base of Apollo's lyre, as if afraid he would jump on her. A clawing grief seized him. Why did she shrink away? Surely she knew he would never harm her!
"No, Maestro."
"Is there some conflict with your obligations to the ballet or the chorus?"
"No, Maestro."
"Then why do you continue to cancel your lessons and waste my valuable time? I do not enjoy being yanked around like a dog on a leash! If you have some grievance with me, by all means, voice it! Or, if you wish to desist with the lessons entirely, do not send the good Madame Giry to me like a royal emissary, simply tell me and be done with it!"
Erik closed the distance between them and braced his hands on the stone on either side of her head, caging her within the prison of his arms. His heart was thundering on so loud, he wondered if she could hear it. Good God, she was trembling! A part of him wanted to fall on his knees and beg for her forgiveness, but he ignored the lure. He would have his answer!
"Is that what you want?" he said huskily, "to sever the bond between us?"
Her eyes were so wide and terrified, pools of rich brown that threatened to draw him in, swallow him in their limpid depths.
"No, Maestro," she whispered.
"Then what do you want?"
By God, what do you want? I will move Heaven and earth to bring it to pass.
Something flickered in her wide gaze, an entirely unexpected kindling of anger. Her dark brows snapped together, her chin jutted in defiance.
"Do you wish to compare slights, Erik? Let's. Why did you pretend to be the Angel of Music that my father promised? Why did you spend your valuable time tutoring me all these years? Why did you leave me all those weeks ago? Why did you let me think that I had offended you? Why did you reveal yourself to me at all? You never asked if I wanted it—what if I don't want to be a prima donna like Carlotta?"
Erik stood stunned by this splendid animation, this vivid manifestation of feelings he hadn't known she had.
He frowned.
"Christine, it would be the gravest of sins to squander a gift of the caliber of your voice!" Erik stared dumbstruck as the chocolate depths of Christine's eyes softened, melted.
"If that is so, then what about your voice, Erik? You made me believe that angels graced the earth with your voice. It is an abomination then to deny it to world."
Erik grew very still.
When he spoke, his voice was deadly soft, a threat woven of velvet and silk.
"An abomination? It is unwise to bandy about that word so glibly, my dear. I've been called that before—by priests, nobles, even the crudest of peasants, all because of the horror of my face." a gasp left her lips, one hand lifting to cover her mouth. Her eyes shone. Was she weeping for him? Pierced by the image, Erik showed her his back, eyes wandering restlessly over the Parisian cityscape.
"As for denying the world my voice, let's just say that it was quite the other way around."
Once, he had aspired to teach the world, to fill it with enough light and music to drown out darkness and pain. Persia had crushed out the dying ember of that hope—until Christine had opened her mouth and glory spilled forth.
"On the matter of impersonating the Angel of Music, I have already explained my sentiments at length. I do not need to reiterate them." the words were hard and sharp-edged, like a stone knife.
"So that is the only reason you tutor me? For my voice?" her tone matched his in sharpness, and Erik turned to face her, perplexed. He smiled thinly.
"I sense a trap. What answer would you most like to hear, child?" the smooth white column of throat shivered as she swallowed. Erik's eyes fixed on a drop of sweat meandering down the smooth line of her jaw.
"The truth." He made a derisive sound in his throat.
"Truth? Truth is a matter of perspective."
"Erik, please."
It was the third time she had used his name, and even in the heat of the moment, he relished the sound of it on her lips. He would hoard these moments like a miser, something to linger over and treasure in the timeless hours of his midnight kingdom. He was undone by her plea.
"No, I do not only tutor you for your voice, though it is without peer. You must know that you have given me great joy in your years as my pupil. I am proud of your dedication to your art, and to learning. No other ballet rat had to learn to speak and read Italian, but you never complained."
The lessons in question were a source of agony for her, he remembered. A natural polyglot himself, he often forgot how difficult learning a new language was for others, even for Christine, who was already bilingual. Christine laughed a high, soft sound that made every corner of his heart dance with joy. She rolled her eyes in exaggerated horror.
"Not aloud, at least! You were a very exacting tutor, Maestro, merciless in the face of my atrocious accent." Erik smiled.
"La Carlotta's warbling does not do it justice. Italiano is a very musical language and many of the world's finest operas are written in it. Much of its magic is lost in translation."
"Sí, sono d'accordo, è bello." Christine said.
"Bravissima, mia cara," he murmured.
Through all the intimacy of mind and of music over their years together, Erik could not recall a moment like this one—a moment tinged with humor and camaraderie, all tension and urgency forgotten. It was more precious than gold to him. But the sweetness was fleeting, like the caress of a ghost, and Erik watched the smile fall from Christine's lips with a pang of dismay. She shifted her gaze up to the dramatic sweep of Pegasus' spread wings.
"Your lessons were the light of my childhood. You sang to comfort a lonely child, and gave her art and knowledge. But now that you're a man, not an angel . . ." She turned to face him, uncertainty evident in the nervous gesture of twisting her mother's silver ring on her little finger. But her eyes were direct, blazing with conviction. Erik tensed, waiting for condemning words.
"Everything is on your terms. I . . . I would just like a say in some things, that's all." Erik arched a brow.
"Oh? In what manner may I accommodate you?" his tone was laden with dread. Her white teeth flashed as she gnawed on her lower lip.
"I would like to see your home." The vague suggestion of a smile touched his lips. Perhaps her demands wouldn't be so terrifying.
"That could be arranged. I must hire a housekeeper first; it is a bachelor's house, after all. And there is the lake . . . hmm. I do hope she doesn't mind getting wet." The dry humor in his tone educed another trill of laughter and Erik had the wild desire to do something utterly foolish to make her laugh again.
"Is there anything else?"
"Just one more thing." Christine's eyes darkened, trapping him in warm, serious regard.
"I want you to stop extorting money from poor Lefavre. It isn't right. With all you do for the Populaire, there is no reason why you cannot earn a . . . honest salary from the managers. You could negotiate face to face." Erik's eyes narrowed.
"'Poor Lefavre' indeed! Christine, if you knew half of what the man has done, then—"
"Erik. Please."
All of his anger deflated. One simple entreaty, judicious use of his given name, ah, how could he deny her? He smiled gently, longing to brush his knuckles along the curve of her cheek, comb that wayward curl behind her ear.
"Does my salary vex you so?" She nodded solemnly.
"I will think on it."
The smile she gifted him with was like a rose's petals unfurling under the sun's gentle persuasion. It was well worth twenty thousand francs a month.
XXX
Even after their earnest conversation on the roof, Erik was pacing the length of Carlotta's shabby former dressing room the next night. Even the Phantom of the Opera, lord of the Opera House and mastermind extortionist, could not predict the moods of an adolescent girl with any surety.
With that sobering thought, the door opened and Minette appeared. Erik's jaw clenched, but his tension eased when Minette gifted him with a rare smile, displaying matching curves of small white teeth. She moved with her quiet, dignified grace that still held the faint, flamboyant bounce of her dancing days and held the door for their shared charge. There was a subtler artistry of movement in Christine, Erik noted with an artist's keen gaze. Petite and coltishly slender, she glided through space with a curious abstraction, as if listening for her soul's music.
"Good evening, Maestro," she murmured. Erik grasped the hem of his cape and swept into an extravagant bow.
"I remain, ladies, your most obedient servant."
Grinning, Minette replied, "Such fine manners, Monsieur Opera Ghost! Where did you find time to learn them between frightening my ballet corps and using set pieces to terrorize La Carlotta?"
Erik scowled in mock irritation.
"The incident with her spaniel she brought upon herself. No Opera Ghost worth his salt would allow that spoiled little tart to make a mess on the stage!"
"The spaniel or La Carlotta?" Christine asked with utter innocence. The statement was so unexpected and absurd that Erik laughed aloud.
"There is scarcely a distinction, is there?" Christine giggled. Out of the corner of his eye, he recognized the smug look on Minette's face as she looked between him and Christine. Congratulating herself on the stroke of sheer brilliance that prompted her to browbeat Erik into revealing his humanity, he supposed. Clearing his throat, he reached behind his back and activated the mirror's mechanism. Cool, damp air seeped from the narrow aperture, the gate to the Underworld.
"Shall we, my dear?"
Christine nodded, that shy, serious smile stretching her lips.
"Ten o' clock, Erik, and not a minute later," Minette reminded sharply.
"Ten o' clock, Madame. Though don't wait up. Clocks are hard to come by in my home."
Minette's eyes narrowed even as her smile betrayed her.
"Don't be late."
He let her have the last word, pushing the mirror along its runners and revealing the dank, dripping interior of the tunnel to his home. It offended his magician's sensibilities to reveal the passage's crude reality, but honesty without artifice was one of Minette's conditions, damn her. He turned to Christine and offered his hand—the first physical contact he had ever offered. A lifetime of rejection had taught him brutal lessons illuminating an impersonal world without even the simplest comfort of touch. The starving thing inside him that craved it still hadn't died.
He waited in an agony of hesitancy . . . her small, cool hand alighted on his, her oval nails shining like fish scales. His fingers curled possessively over hers, and he wished the barrier of his gloves were removed, so he could sample the heady feeling of skin on skin. Not relinquishing his hold on her hand, Erik slammed the mirror shut, locking the mechanism with a faint click. He plucked the gas lamp from the hook just within the tunnel's interior.
"Come."
XXX
The warm, firm contact of Erik's hand in hers, the searing look in his eye as he looked back at her, illuminated in a wash of gold anchored her to reality. This was surely a dream, being whisked away to the Phantom's lair beneath the Opera! Christine could scarcely believe her own boldness on the roof yesterday. All but shouting at him, demanding to have a say. Was Meg right? Was she really falling in love with Erik? Her own feelings were such a confused muddle that she could give no definitive answer.
The poignancy of his words yesterday struck her. They illuminated how dark and cruel his life had been and she was honored by the vulnerability he revealed in voicing it. The sound of his laugh rang in her inner ear, so rich and musical, filling the world with color.
Excitement raced through her now, hammering swiftly with her heartbeat.
The cold, embracing darkness of the tunnel did not fill her head with childish nightmares of leering shapes in the dark, not with Erik's hand in hers. Christine felt uplifted, energized, the faint cobweb of weariness brushed aside. A great staircase spiraled down into the very bowels of earth, a cold breeze smelling of moldering earth and fetid water wafting up. Forlorn posters of years-old operas rippled in that icy wind, their cheerful colors faded to indistinguishable shades of brown. Erik led her in silence and normally Christine would have poked and prodded for conversation, if only to hear the lilt of his heavenly voice. But this silence held a different savor, one she couldn't quite identify and dared not mar.
Her feet began to ache as they descended the last stair and began down a tunnel that widened into a shallow ramp, lit by sconces of candles. Moisture thickened the air and condensed in diamond trails on the stone. A horse stood tethered, neat black ears pricked in interest. Christine glanced at Erik.
"Christine, this is César, a stallion of the finest Persian lines. Hold out your hand, let him smell you." She did as he asked, her mind chewing on this new knowledge. Persia! Had Erik been to Persia? The huge animal ambled over to her, his gleaming muscles coiling under black satin skin like oiled rope. Warm, damp breath fluttered over her palm in a delicate caress and César gifted her with a gentle nudge.
Erik knelt and offered his woven fingers for her to mount. In one fluid movement, she was settled sidesaddle on the great animal's wide back. Christine clung to handfuls of glossy black mane as César followed the gentle tug of Erik's hand on his rein. To make the journey even more surreal, Christine glimpsed a gondola moored on the banks of a lake!
Eyes wide with wonder, she smiled down at Erik from her perch on César. He returned with a nonchalant shrug and a token curving of lips. The white silk lining of his cape rippled as he spread his arms. Christine's hands shook as they alighted on the solid curves of his shoulders, but with nerves or simple cold she wasn't sure. Her breath misted in the chill. How strange! It was the height of summer above ground. How was it so cold down here?
But he was warm.
The force of his body's heat seared her hand through layers of cloth. Erik lifted her from César's saddle with no discernable effort and lowered her to the ground, her body brushing his and setting nerves afire. Christine peered at him through the veil of her lashes and found his stormy eyes keen. The cadence of her breathing quickened, her heartbeat fluttering. Erik broke the moment by leaping with agile grace into the gondola, the craft barely rocking. He offered his hand again, which she took, passionately grateful for his help. Falling into a lake with an ignominious splash and the subsequent panic and sputtering was not the triumphant chord she wanted for this magical night.
Seated on silk cushions, she resisted the urge to laugh in delight as Erik poled the gondola down the narrow canals, revealing ghoulish carvings of grimacing faces, and the torsos of Atlas holding up the roof. A portcullis loomed and before her wondering eyes, it rose, the lower rungs clotted with filth. Candelabras rose gracefully from the water, their wicks blazing to life of their own will. Erik's realm was one of wonder and magic and Christine was content to absorb its secrets.
XXX
No soul had ever breached the sacred realm of his home, save Minette. And now his beloved Christine was gracing his kingdom with her beauty and her sweetness, each thing she touched made sacred. Erik watched from his organ bench as she wandered, first peering at his scale replica of the theater, then wandering over to his architect's slanted desk, and the building sketches on the walls, camouflaging the countless representations of her. A secret obsession, he reflected, an element of the landscape of his fantasies, hidden behind the thinnest of veneers. If she cared to look, cared to see . . .
"Your home is beautiful, Maestro. Truly," she said, her voice reverberating of the walls.
"Thank you, Christine. I find it . . . tranquil," he replied.
Tranquility, privacy, solitude—the qualities that made his home so attractive upon returning from Persia made them a prison now. His angel could not stay here. She deserved light and freedom, the feel of the sun on her face. Christine wandered to his side, leaning over his shoulder to look at the score on his organ. She was not touching him, but her hair draped across his shoulder, caressing the curve of his jaw with its soft warmth. If he turned his head, he could set his lips at the leaping pulse point on the underside of her jaw.
"Don Juan Triumphant. Oh, is this a new work, Maestro? Will you play it for me?" her eyes shone with interest, reaching out to trace across the staves. Erik shot to his feet, snatching the thick sheaf of paper from her.
"Absolutely not! You may not even touch it, Christine. It's dangerous." A frown marred Christine's brow.
"Dangerous? How can music be dangerous?"
Erik ignored her, tucking the manuscript into a drawer and returning to the organ bench. His gaze flicked over her, a discreet clearing of his throat shooing her from the bench. He caught the flash of hurt in her eyes, but her presence here discomfited as well as elated him. To have her here, in the one place he felt safe . . . Erik found he was distinctly uncomfortable. His fingers rested lightly on the keys.
"You mentioned yesterday that I did not consult your opinion during my tenure as your tutor. Forgive me, but I thought it a moot point." Two spots of color blazed on Christine's high cheekbones.
"I do wish to sing, Maestro. It is only . . ."
"What, my dear?" he prompted. Christine smiled tremulously.
"I despise Carlotta's . . . smugness. I'm just afraid that if I do take the stage I will become like her or worse, I could . . ." She lapsed into embarrassed silence.
"Truth, remember?" Erik said gently. Her entire posture seemed to shrink, as if she wished to melt into the floor.
"I could disappoint you," she whispered. She made such a heartbreaking portrait that Erik rose with the intention of embracing her. He stopped short just in time, settling instead for a tender smile.
"Impossible. You could never disappoint me. You honor me simply by being who you are. As to La Carlotta, her fits of histrionics are made to mask a deep feeling of inadequacy and insecurity. You have more talent in your little finger than she could every hope to have, and yet are humble and gentle in spirit. The world will fall at your feet and worship you as you deserve."
Every muscle and sinew in his body tensed as Christine threw her arms around his torso. Body, mind and heart were in perfect accord: this was perfection. The tickling caress of her hair under his chin and the soft scent of violets wafting from it, the delicious solid warmth of her body against his. Every cell of his body rejoiced.
Oh Christine . . .
His arms rose to encircle her back under the warm cascade of her hair. Tears pricked his eyes.
Is this happiness? This breathless rapture? This joy that fizzles like champagne bubbles in the blood?
"Thank you, Erik," she whispered, her cheek pressed against his chest, her breath a warm, damp caress through the layers of his clothing.
Erik waited, careful to keep his hold light, neutral when every instinct screamed to cling and press her tight against the heart that was lost to her. He waited until he could speak without sobbing in joy, passionately grateful she could not see his face. A snide voice sneered at his pathetic ineptitude, but was too busy wallowing in this simple hug to care.
"Y—you are quite welcome."
All too soon, she pulled back and Erik strove to collect himself. His arms fell slack to his sides, bereft without her. He mustered what he hoped was a casual smile.
"Thanks to the good Madame Giry, our time is very short. Let us begin your lesson. Begin with a seven-note scale in C-minor."
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A/N: A special thanks to all of you who penned a review. I am greedy for them!
FieryPen37