Curious, she cautiously looked back in the drawer while cradling her wounded hand. Sure enough, beneath a light mauve dress laid a stack of heavy paper bound loosely by a crème ribbon. Someone must want this hidden, she thought before grabbing the stack and gathering her legs beside her.
She hastily untangled the ribbon and stared down at the stationary. From the cursive scrawl, she realized that the papers must be a form of correspondence. As she flipped through the sheets, she revised her thought—not correspondence, merely letters, as only one person had written them. She glanced down at the signature on the first note: Forever yours, Christine.
She had written these! Anxiety began to build in the pit of her stomach as she skimmed the first letter:
Dearest Raoul,
He has stolen me away—my maestro! To the fifth cellar of the Opera House! Oh, he has been deluding me for all this time! To think him an angel! And then to discover the opposite! He is a demon! A demon straight from Hell! His visage is hideously deformed. His eyes glow an unnatural yellow in the darkness, and his skin is pulled tightly to the bone . . . he looks as if he is a skeleton. A corpse! He has no nose just as a corpse does not!
She began to tremble, recalling Erik's heated outburst about his face. Her husband . . . it was not he who had stolen her away, was it? It couldn't possibly . . . ! Yet it would explain so much!
I am terribly frightened, Raoul. When I pulled his mask off—a grievous error—he attacked me and told me terrible things! He shouted that I am to stay with him forever . . . and then began to sob and beg for forgiveness at the hem of my dress.
Her eyes widened, and her breath came in quick pants. Attacked?
After he had composed himself, he told me that I am to stay here for a fortnight, and we are to gaily pass the time with music. He also begged of me that I could perhaps learn to loathe him less. Oh Raoul, there are times when I pity him. Pity him as much as I loathe him.
I wish you were here to rescue me, my brave love!
Forever Yours,
Christine
She could not comprehend the last sentence, and she was forced to reread it several times before she grasped understanding. Her mind whirled as all the pieces came together: the hidden letters, gallivanting with that boy, I wish you were here to rescue me . . .
She shakily stared down at the band on her left ring finger with a dawn of realization: Erik was not her husband!
In the quaint kitchen, Erik busily prepared the main course for their picnic. However, as he prepared the chicken, he realized he would need the traditional woven basket. It has been quite some time since I have been on a picnic! He chuckled to himself as he opened the cabinet above the cutlery. He found nothing but teacups. Where had he left that basket? He began to rummage in the other cabinets futilely. After several minutes more of fruitless searching, he relented. No matter, he thought, I will simply use a cloth to tie it all up. My wife will understand. He grinned to himself, but his eyes did not crease or sparkle.
He sighed, his smile deflating as he stalked back towards the stove. The meat was sizzling. As soon as it was blackened to Christine's tastes, he deftly sprinkled oregano. Satisfied with his culinary skill, he slid the chicken from the pan onto a silver platter that he had purchased on a whim.
Realizing wine would complement the meal, he strolled to the large oak door that housed the wine cellar. He considered himself to be a connoisseur of great wine, and he quickly consulted his taste buds, pondering which wine to choose from his abundant collection. After settling on an aged Chardonnay, he procured the bottle from a crate on the left side of the room and climbed the stairs.
Once he reached the kitchen, he swiftly acquired a white table cloth (that would double as both the picnic basket and blanket) with increasing excitement and placed the platter in the center. After tying the ends of the cloth together, he rushed into his room and plucked his cloak and hat from his dresser.
Suddenly, and with a genuine smile, he began to hum a tune that he had been toying with in his mind as he had prepared their picnic. Inspired, he swiveled to face his organ, grabbing a sheet of paper and his quill. He jotted down only the necessary notes to jar his memory, not wishing to become absorbed in music at the time.
Several minutes later (as he had become lost in his music despite his desire), he flinched, realizing that Christine was likely patiently—for she was the paragon of patience—awaiting his arrival in the sitting room. He ran back into the kitchen, adjusting the brim of his hat on the way, and grabbed the picnic sack and wine.
Supper in hand, he strolled into the sitting room with an expectant smile plastered on his face.
He was honestly surprised when Christine was not sitting on the settee, smoothing her skirts with an adorable frown of concentration.
Is she still readying herself? He thought, adjusting the wine so that it was in the crook of his arm to glance at his pocket watch. It had been twenty minutes. Was that not enough time for the average woman to dress? Perhaps she decided to take a bath . . .
Sighing, he resigned himself to the settee.
Christine sat, tensed, in the corner of the room, hands curled into tight claws as she read the letters.
Raoul,
Beyond the impropriety of it all—and the impropriety of this is immense—he has acted as naught but the part of the Parisian gentleman. This is extremely fortunate for me, for I would be forced to do the unthinkable should he act vulgarly. He has offered me my own room filled with lavish items that are beyond my scope of ever affording, but he did not realize that the scissors he gave me could be rendered a weapon.
Oh, but he had acted improperly! He had slept in her bed under the pretense of being her husband!
I would only use them should a need arise, but . . . Raoul, how could you ever forgive me if something like that were to happen? You are my only love, I swear to you. Do not I wear your ring around my neck? And he shall never know of our secret engagement! Please, Raoul, when I arrive back at the Opera House, steal me away so that we may marry!
All my love,
Christine
Her tears threatened to brim. And this was only the fifth letter! How much worse could her situation become as it was revealed by the letters . . .? Her hus—maestro, a deceiver. And her lover, up above and unable to be contacted.
She shuffled to the next letter, steeling herself for another onslaught of disillusionment.
Had it not been for an abrupt knocking on the door.
Her eyes widened, and she pushed herself back further into the corner, pulling her knees up to her chest and shoving the letters hastily under the bed.
She did not answer the knocking, even as it became insistent.
"Christine?" he called from behind the door, "Dearest?" Her eyes narrowed as anger threatened to overcome her anxiety. Did he believe he had the right to call her that? Her nostrils flared, and her eyes sparked.
"Christine our picnic is ready!" He knocked again, "And I know you are hungry!" He forced a light chuckle as his unease grew. Why was she not answering? He knocked again, this time more urgently. "Christine, if you do not answer, I will be forced to open the door. If you are dressing, please let me know quickly . . ."
Her desperation abruptly overshadowed her cowardice, "How dare you?"
On the opposite side of the door, Erik's eyes widened as he froze. What happened? He scarcely found his voice. She could not have remembered that quickly . . . !
"What is the matter, dear?" he forced his tone to be light and conversational, betraying none of the apprehension he felt albeit a slight waver.
He heard a metallic clang on the stone floor.
A sudden burst of rashness surged through her veins, "YOU! You are NOT my husband!"
There was a moment of utter silence.
Then Erik dropped the sack dinner, the wine bottle shattering on the floor, and threw open the door, his face displaying a myriad of expressions, unknowing of what to expect. Would she be cowering in her bed? Poised by the door with a weapon?
Eyes wild, he spotted her in the corner: her face blotchy, nostrils flared, and eyes a mixture of both flashing and wounded. A whimper emanated from her as her lips quivered. A ring glimmered on the floor beside the opposite wall.
She knew. And he was ruined. Utterly RUINED! He rounded on the wall and slammed his fist against it, bloodying his knuckles. WHY? Why can God not offer me some semblance of happiness for scant moments? All my wretched life . . . he groaned, his hands grasping at his mask as he slid down the stone wall, scraping his back.
You knew this would happen at some point! His conscience countered. He growled menacingly, teeth bared.
Christine gasped at his display, attempting to disappear into the wall.
He opened his bleary eyes with some amount of force, "Christine . . ." he whispered gently.
She covered her ears.
"Christine, my love . . ." he shuddered, "I think it is time I told you the true story of the Angel of Music."
A/N: Thank you to all of my reviewers! You are all so supportive! I just got back from my vacation, so another update will be coming in a few days! :)