Christine was feeling completely amazed and thoroughly ashamed.
"Oh, wow," she said softly as she pulled out the dress. "Wow, Erik…This is amazing."
He was silent, watching her as she held the dress against her. She spun around, feeling a little silly but wanting to make him laugh. He didn't even blink.
"Well—what do you think?" she said.
"It will look acceptable, as always," he said.
"'Acceptable,'" she repeated, unable to hide a little smile. "That's good."
The gala was to be held later that week, and she had never been more nervous. She had thought her audition had been nearly traumatizing, but this was…much more intimidating. She would be singing in front of rich patrons and other members of the company who would judge her. Christine often tried to calm herself down by remembering what Mr. Gabriel had told her: most people wouldn't even listen to her.
But Erik couldn't disagree more. "It is to be a smaller unveiling of your exquisite instrument," he had said to her as they worked on her song. "If all goes well, the unworthy masses will be clamoring to hear you after your song."
She had laughed uncomfortably. "I don't want to put too much stock into this one song," she had said. "I'll have lots more chances."
Erik had ignored her and continued saying that the party after the gala was extremely important for her. She needed to do the best she could.
And apparently, Erik didn't want to leave anything up to chance. He had given her another gorgeous dress. It was the opposite of her red one—a very dark blue that shimmered slightly when she moved.
"I love it, Erik," she continued to gush. "Thank you so much. You really think of everything." She carefully put the dress back in the box, ensuring that it wouldn't wrinkle. "I'll never be able to repay you for everything you've done for me."
"We shall see," he said. "Now put that aside. You need to work several measures of the third verse…"
The weather was warming, and it was also warming the grief in her heart. Life had continued, and although she still missed Gustave with an undeniable ache, she realized that life had not ended. She still woke up in the morning and enjoyed breakfast. She still sang and loved music. She still liked Raoul and kisses and hugs. Christine found that she still enjoyed the things she did before—hot tea and books and daydreaming…Her pain from losing her father hadn't taken away all the joy in her life. Sometimes she would realize, with a little burst of emotion, that she was somehow standing without him. It was not impossible. It was incredibly hard, yes, but not impossible. Life was continuing, and she was continuing with it. The music made her happy, and as long as there was music, she could go on.
One afternoon in early April, Raoul dragged her out to the park. It was a beautiful day, and Christine was glad that the weather had decided to change to spring a little earlier in the year. The flowers were beginning to bud, and most trees had tiny green leaves, waiting to grow. They walked some pathways hand-in-hand, and Christine felt incredibly peaceful. This was what Gustave would want for her. He would want her to be safe, happy, and cared for.
After a while of walking, they went into a wide field and lay down on the grass. Christine put her head on his shoulder and watched a man play fetch with his dog.
"Aww!" she exclaimed, pointing. "That dog's so cute."
Raoul turned his head to look and then smiled at her. "I've always wanted a dog," he said. "But my mom's allergic, so we were never allowed to have pets. Still, I'm going to get one when I'm married and in a house of my own." He paused and then said, "Have you ever wanted one?"
"A dog?" She shrugged lightly, playing with the zipper of his sports jacket. "Sure. I guess. I don't know."
He laughed at her and then kissed her. She blushed and said, trying to redeem herself, "I guess I'd like one. They look fun."
They continued to talk a bit about their envisioned future, as they had sometimes done in the past. Christine was a little more careful in what she said, as she now could not imagine a life without singing and music. But Raoul would probably think that that was melodramatic, corny, and…most likely stupid. It was true, though, for however silly it sounded.
After they fell into a comfortable silence, Christine closed her eyes and allowed herself to enjoy the sunshine on her cheek. There was noise all around her; she could hear the dog barking excitedly, two women talking, some kids yelling…It was all dull, comforting noise.
"Hey, Christine?"
She opened her eyes again. "Hmm?" she said.
"I was wondering if you'd given any more thought about Easter."
Frowning a little, she shifted so that her chin was on his shoulder, and she looked up at him. "What do you mean?" she said, knowing perfectly well what he meant.
"Well," he began slowly. "My mom really wants me to come up for the weekend, since all my family will be there. And…I really want you to come, too."
Christine nibbled on her lower lip and reached up to twirl a curl around her finger. "I don't know," she said slowly. "When are you heading up?"
"The Saturday before," he said. "You have weekends off, don't you? You can come!"
She tried desperately to think of a way out. The gala was Friday night, not Saturday, but…Christine wasn't sure that she could face Mrs. de Chagny again, not after what had happened over Christmas. How could Raoul forget about that so suddenly? Christine had never felt more insulted, berated, and hurt in her entire life.
However…she owed it to Raoul. She had been busy lately with rehearsals and her private lessons, too busy to go out to the many dinners or other dates he had invited her on. And his words were continually ringing in her ear: it takes two people to make a relationship work. Raoul was doing too much work. It was time for her to step up and make some sacrifices for him, just as he was always doing for her.
"Okay," she said at last, trying her hardest to sound excited. "Sounds good."
"You'll really come?" he said, sounding surprised. "Great! Hey—come on. I'll buy you some ice cream at that parlor over there."
Even though it was probably still too chilly outside for ice cream, she ate it gladly, and he took a picture of her with his phone, laughing at the silly expression she made.
As he was driving her home, he reached over and put a hand on her thigh.
"Hey," he said quietly. "I don't want you to take this the wrong way or get offended or anything…but I'm just really proud of you. I think you're handling your dad's death really well—I mean going out and taking that singing job just a week or so after his funeral and everything…I'm really surprised, and I'm really glad that you're doing okay."
"Heh," she said uncomfortably, staring out of the window. How was she to answer that? The music was healing her, slowly and painfully, but…it was. And though she knew that there would forever be a scar to remind her, the music made her feel closer to him. It made her feel better.
"Didn't you say once that your dad had problems after your mom died?" Raoul then asked.
Christine then realized—Raoul had expected the worst.
"Yeah," Christine said vaguely, still looking at the passing buildings.
"Well, I just want you to know that I'm really proud of you." He rubbed her leg and then put his hand back on the steering wheel.
They made dinner together, and afterward as Christine cleaned up, he went over to look at her small library. She always wanted to expand it, but her recent financial strains had made purchasing a simple paperback novel pretty much impossible.
"I had to read some of these books in high school and college," Raoul commented, pulling some out to examine. "It was torture. I've never been a huge book fan, like you."
"Poor guy," she said sympathetically.
He laughed at that and then looked at the top shelf, pulling out another book. When Christine glanced back and saw what it was, she paled a little and hurriedly set down the plate she was drying.
"What is—is it really?" He was laughing as he opened the pages and looked at the pictures. "Wow! You were a tiny baby."
She went and looked over his arm at the pictures, feeling an urge to blush and another urge to snatch the picture book out of his hands.
"I haven't looked at this in a long time," Christine said absently, lightly touching the corner of a picture. It was Gustave holding her when she was just born. Her pink, scrunched, wailing face was peeking out of a bundle of white blankets.
"Does this bother you?" Raoul then asked. "Me looking at this?"
She shrugged. It did and it didn't. But that didn't make any sense, and so she went with one that would make sense: "No, it's fine."
They went over to the couch, and she curled up beside him as he flipped through the pages, looking at the visual representation of the progression of her infancy and childhood. Christine stared at the pictures of Gustave, noting how incredibly happy he looked in all of them. His face wasn't gaunt, and he didn't have shadows under his eyes. He was a tall, handsome man, simply glad to have a wife and child. Christine felt torn, knowing that he had no idea what was about to happen to him.
She was hesitant about looking at the pictures of her mother.
"Wow, she was pretty. You look just like her," Raoul said as they examined one together. "But you obviously have your dad's hair." Christine managed to smile at that and kept her head nestled on his shoulder.
Christine felt her lips drawing inward when they reached pictures of her fourth birthday. Right after that was when…The pictures now were mostly just of her…Lots of pictures were of her sitting at the foot of a hospital bed, as if the person taking them was situated in the bed. Then there was a huge leap in her age. Raoul seemed confused.
"What?" he said, flipping through some pages. "Did you just have some massive growth spurt after you turned four? What was—oh." He got quiet quickly as he realized. "Sorry," he then said softly.
"It's okay," she said. After her mother got too sick to take pictures, there weren't very many. And there were absolutely no pictures of her when she was five. The picture that next showed up was one of her hugging her father—she was clearly bawling loudly. Christine felt her throat clog a little at the sight. It was the day she had been given back to him. She could remember everything with a perfect clarity. After that, there weren't that many to look through. Gustave usually only took a picture or two on her birthday. She was actually sometimes surprised that he took any at all. Then there was a picture of her grinning nervously in an airport: the day they moved to America. She was lanky and very underdeveloped. And then there were a couple pictures of her when she started high school—a rare one of her and Gustave after one of her choir recitals—and then one of her at her high school graduation. Then the pictures stopped. Raoul closed the book.
They sat in silence for a long time. Christine sensed that he was unsure of what to say. She didn't mind the silence, but she really wanted to be alone suddenly.
"I think I'm going to bed," she said softly, sitting up and stretching. "Thanks for today. It was fun."
"Yeah," he said awkwardly, putting the book down. "Um…have a goodnight, Christine."
He left, and she picked up the book and again looked through the pictures, choking up again as she examined Gustave's jubilant, carefree, happy face as he held her when she was just born. After crying silently for several long minutes, she got angry with herself and tossed the book aside, marching to the bedroom and laying down, closing her eyes resolutely.
But her mind betrayed her, and she dreamed of her Pappa and her Moder.
When the night of the gala arrived, Christine had driven herself to near-hysterics. She paced in the practice room, her heels clicking rapidly as she clutched at her arms and stared at the floor. Erik was watching her quietly from the piano, having finished warming her up a few minutes ago. Christine had been much too nervous to sit through the gala itself, and Erik had not objected when she asked if she could just go and practice with him in their room while the gala was being performed. She had heard distant applause several minutes ago, signaling the end of the performance.
Christine then hurried over to the chair and dug through her purse.
"Calm yourself, my dear," Erik said, and she nodded quickly, smearing more gloss onto her lips.
"I know, I know," she said hurriedly, trying to take deep breaths. "I'm just so nervous."
"You will do well," Erik said. "Simply allow the music to live."
She nodded, knowing just what he was talking about. If anyone else had said that to her, they would have sounded crazy, but Erik understood, and he could say it without sounding insane.
Adjusting the straps of her shoes, she asked again, "What time is it? Should I go now?"
"It is not yet time," he said quietly, and she sighed forcefully, straightening up and presenting herself for inspection.
"Does it look okay?" she said, spinning slowly for him. The dress had fit, of course, and it made her skin seem whiter and her hair seem darker. She loved it. Her shoes were silvery and pretty, and Erik had agreed to let wear her (very) short heels, as long as she remembered not to lean too far forward and mess up her breathing.
He looked at her and then said, "Nearly."
Christine frowned a little, looking down at herself. "What's wrong?" she asked.
He walked closer to her, standing just in front, and she resisted taking a few steps back. There was a small pause, and then he held out a small, flat, rectangular box that she hadn't seen him holding before. When he opened it, she literally gasped. Inside were diamond earrings and a necklace—both painfully beautiful.
Erik held it out closer to her, and she hesitated.
"I can't wear those," she said weakly, insanely tempted by the gleaming jewelry. "That's—those are probably real…"
"Of course they are," he said, sounding offended. "You think Erik would give you fake jewels?"
She glanced up at him and was a little startled to see that he was watching her face intently.
"Erik, they're so beautiful," she said, lifting up a hand to touch the necklace lightly. "But…I couldn't take them…I could never repay you for them…"
"They are a gift," he said shortly. "You will wear them."
She was breathless. "A gift?" she whispered. "I can't…this is…"
Raoul had given her jewelry before, but never any diamonds. And maybe it wasn't so much that they were diamonds—it was the fact that Erik was giving them to her.
"You will wear them because I wish you to wear them," he said shortly. It almost made her laugh, but she was still a little too shocked by the gleaming diamonds in front of her. With trembling, eager hands, she reached out and pulled them out of the soft, cushioned lining, the weight and feel of the jewelry unfamiliar yet exciting.
She clipped everything on, letting herself momentarily feel like some rich, famous person that wore real diamonds.
"Does it look fine now?" she then said, putting a few shaking fingers on the necklace.
"Yes. Yes. Fine," he said, handing out the accompaniment toward her. "It is time for you to go."
"Okay," she said, clearing her throat hastily when she squeaked on her word and taking the music from him. "Okay. Wish—wish me luck!"
Predictably, he was silent, and he watched her as she went over to the door and opened it with a deep breath. Giving one last glance to him, she forced herself to look forward and step away from the safety of the practice room, heading down the hallways and toward the grand ballroom where the after-party was being held. As she drew closer, she could hear the murmur of conversation and the occasional laughter of the people inside.
Not wanting to enter through the grand double doors and be stared at, Christine hurried off around it and slipped in using one of the lesser-used side doors, emerging just by a circular table that held tall glasses of fizzing champagne. She looked around, noting the pretty dresses and handsome tuxedos of those in attendance. It was strange to see many of the performers all dressed up and talking with the people who were watching the gala. It had almost seemed like the company of the Opera House was a small bubble that was confined to itself, and nothing could enter or exit.
Christine caught sight of the corner in which the piano sat, and she weaved her way through. One or two of the nicer girls in the company waved at her while she passed, and she smiled at them tightly, not wanting to talk and be distracted. This was her moment—Erik had made it clear that this was the time.
Mr. Reyer was talking to the pianist, and he nodded at her when he saw her coming.
"Good evening, Miss Daae," he said. "We're glad that you could make it to sing for us."
"Yeah—thanks," she said, almost tripping over her heels as she stepped up onto the small platform. Thankfully, she didn't fall, and she managed to hand Mr. Reyer the music without any further accidents.
Smoothing down the front of her dress and double-checking her jewelry, Christine stood in the bend of the piano and looked out over the couple hundred people in attendance of the party. Only a dozen or so were looking at her expectantly. Some glanced at her and then turned their attention back to their conversations. Most, however, didn't even look as the accompaniment started.
Christine breathed deeply, staring at the back wall so she wouldn't have to look direct at anyone. Thankfully, the introduction was several measures long, giving her a little time to collect herself. This was for Gustave…and herself…and for Erik. He had done all of this for her. He had ensured that her voice was good enough to be here, and his music was still gradually pulling at her, forcing her to live and breathe and feel.
She suddenly wondered if he was in here somewhere, listening to her—though of course he wouldn't be mingling in the crowd, sipping champagne. But still…he'd probably want to be there and make sure she didn't botch her performance…wouldn't he?
The thought somehow bolstered her. If Erik was there, she wanted to make him proud. She wanted one of his rare compliments after her little performance. And that would only come if she did well.
She let the music live and breathe, just as Erik had said. It was just the music. The only other person there was Erik—somewhere. He was the only one who would understand. The pulsing of the song, the life in the music…He knew. And she did. She was the music. It was in her, and it was her. Her entire being seemed to belong and be the music itself, and she no longer had a physical body. It was just an essence of music. She felt better than she had that afternoon when she first experienced such a thing. This was more, because Erik was listening and hearing her music.
When the song came to an end, Christine fell back to the earth. The present caught up with her, and she blinked a few times, as if surprised that she was there on the small stage. The entire room was staring at her. There was no sound. She began to grow worried. Had she sounded awful? No! No! She had felt it! She knew she had done well!
Then the applause broke out, relieving her, and she was suddenly aware of her body. She felt weak, and her knees were shaking. The applause was only growing, and people began to clamor around the little makeshift stage. Christine felt perspiration form along her brow, and her hands were trembling fiercely.
The song had drained her completely, and now that the music was silent, she didn't feel strong enough to shoulder the weight of it all. She grabbed the piano for support, trying to turn away from the applauding audience. Christine knew that she should have been overjoyed, but at the moment she was hot and sweaty and nauseous. She wanted to lie down somewhere dim and cool…She wanted to talk to Erik more than anything in the world.
"Miss Daae!"
She felt an arm around her waist and a hand latch onto her arm. It was Mr. Reyer.
"I'm fine," she said feebly.
"Come on," he said gently, and he pulled her down and toward some nearby doors. She heard him saying, "Excuse me, please—make room. Please move. Make room. Excuse me."
They were finally out of the crowded ballroom, and Christine let her eyes close for a moment in relief. The hallway they were walking down was dim and cool, just like she wanted.
Mr. Reyer opened a door, and she looked around and realized that it was the room rehearsals were held in. He put her down on one of the chairs and tried to fan her a little.
"Are you feeling all right? You've gone pale."
"I'm fine," she repeated. "Sorry. I don't know what happened."
"Adrenaline, I'm sure," Mr. Reyer said, standing. "You did…a very good job, Miss Daae. Everyone was impressed. I was impressed. It's hard to believe, but you've grown a considerable amount as a singer since you auditioned for us."
"I'm so embarrassed," Christine muttered honestly. She hadn't even been able to walk offstage!
Mr. Reyer smiled kindly. "Just work on your stage presence and keep that adrenaline under some kind of control. Then you would be a near-perfect performer. Anyway. I have to go back to the party now. I'm playing the piano in a few minutes. Are you going to be all right here?"
She nodded, and he stepped away, saying, "Okay. Just rest here a few minutes. When you feel up to it, feel free to come back to the party. I'm positive that there are dozens of people wanting to speak to you." Then he left, the door closing behind him softly. Christine lay down across a couple chairs, her legs dangling off the side but her torso supported. It felt a lot better than sitting up. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply for a few moments, trying to still her racing heart.
The moments passed, and then she sensed him. He was there, and she saw his glowing eyes after looking for them. With a little groan, she pushed herself up to a sitting position.
"Erik," she said tiredly, rubbing at her forehead. "Did you hear me?"
"Yes." His voice was soft, almost like a hiss but not quite as harsh. It was a whisper of a sound. She wanted him to come closer because she didn't like how she could only see his eyes.
"Did I—how did I do? Did I do well?"
"Yes." The second one came out like a hiss, long and drawn-out. Christine shivered, and she wasn't sure if it was because she was scared or…something else.
"I sang…for you tonight. Does that make sense? Does it sound stupid? I sang it for you. You're the only one who—who understands."
"I am the only one who understands," he repeated.
Christine touched the diamond necklace, still in awe that such a beautiful piece of jewelry was wrapped around her neck. Diamonds—on her!
After a painfully-long pause, Erik approached, and she could see his outline in the dim room. He was watching her steadily.
"Now is the time to be careful," he said, his voice slipping out and encompassing her. "Your potential—your genius—is known…There will be those who will envy you, and there will be those who will claim you as their own. Do you understand me, my dear?"
She nodded. Christine did not understand.
"It is time for our real work to begin," Erik said. His voice was so deliciously-soft, and she was practically on the edge of her seat, waiting for him to say something else. She loved listening to him talk. It was like wanting to listen to a talented singer for hours upon hours—yet Erik had such talent in his mere speaking voice. "You must be committed to me now more than ever. I can guide you, but it is only possible if you forego all other temptations and distractions. Fame and genius are fickle, and you cannot do it on your own. You must let go of your regret and grief over your father, and you must give yourself to me fully. I can lead you to things you've never imagined." There was another pause, and his gaze was boring into hers. Christine tried not to blink, not wanting to break this moment.
"Tell me you believe me," he said abruptly.
"I believe you," she replied obediently. "I do, Erik."
His gaze relaxed slightly, and it sounded as if he sighed very softly. Then he whispered,
"I know you do."