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Chapter 3: Of a Minor Key

Just as his mouth met mine with a new intensity that would mark a long night of making music, an angry shout came from outside our window. "Christine!" that voice yelled in fury. "You can't do this! Your honor, your future – everything for which your father sacrificed himself will be for naught! Do not bind yourself to this peasant, this scoundrel!"

Erik's face darkened like a thunderstorm, and his eyes became blue chips of ice. "Ruffian," he breathed, and the breath was like the first lashing of rain that began outside the window. "How did he find us?"

"Opera rogue, release Miss. Daäe or we shall enter by force and it will go worse for you."

"I know that voice," I said slowly, pushing Erik from me and peering outside the window. "It's the patron, the Vicomte, Raoul de Chagny. We used to be childhood friends. Did I tell you? Why on earth would he be here?"

"Raoul?" Erik echoed, his face twisting. He picked up his mask, bitterly. "And here I thought you'd escaped his clutches forever."

"Erik!" I exclaimed, torn between shock at his familiarity and at the nasty tone in which he spoke.

The lean man disregarded me and opened the window to shout down three stories to the man below. "She has chosen me, Vicomte. Leave us! You can have no objection to our union!"

"There is no record of such a union! As far as the church assumes, you are destroying the innocence of a maiden!"

I saw Eriki's body freeze. His hands gripped the windowsill, knuckles trembling at the tension of the bones below. He uttered an oath of which the church would certainly not approve. He quickly, however, regained a measure of his composure. "Nevertheless, she has come to me of her own will. Surely, the God who created marriage before the church existed would accept the authenticity of our hearts. In His eyes, we are married, Vicomte!" Erik snarled.

"She has chosen you while she was under the delusions of fever and madness. You have a count of three minutes to send her through the front door," was my patron's unrelenting response.

"It was you who drove her to me!"

"Nonsense. It was – I will not argue about this in public!" He motioned to the legion of gendarmes behind him who stood at stiff attention, holding rifles. "Two minutes!"

My teacher, my husband, became the Phantom once more. He shut the window harshly and, turning to me, roughly redid the buttons he had undone on both our clothing. "He will rob me of everything," he cursed beneath his breath.

Once he was done, I breathlessly twisted around to him and caught him in my arms. My fingers knotted themselves in his hair. I felt a well of affection for him. No matter what madness he spoke, he was above all my teacher and my husband. "Erik, what does this mean?" I asked tenderly.

"It means, my dear" – odd that the endearment would not seem so endearing – "that there is going to be much drama before our Music of the Night will be sung." There was a swift hammering on the door downstairs, and then a look of terror briefly swept over Erik's face.

"What is it?" I asked.

"Clarice," was the one word; he rushed from the room like a cloud in high winds and glided down the stairs, his cloak misting them like fog.

There was a crash; a blood-curling scream. Terrified for my husband, I followed in his wake.

"Fools! Murderers!" I heard his voice scream at them, and I stood still halfway down the stairs. His voice had never sounded like this. Not beautiful, not powerful – just full of raw, crushed power.

Or had I heard it before? I had the dim memory of a voice sounding so as I was pulled down a spiraling stone staircase, of being frightened of my Angel.

Why should I be frightened? I chastised myself. Confused, nonetheless, I continued down the stairs with slightly less alacrity.

When I saw Erik, he was surrounded by soldiers, kneeling in the middle of their circle, cradling a neat little dress. I came closer and found that feet peeped out from within the fluffy confounds. His back was shaking, and he gave up from his throat a mournful howl. "Clarice!"

My mind was numb. Why was he shouting the servant girl's name? Why was he holding a grotesque doll – a doll that had a hole in its chest reminiscent of that which a bayonet would make. It even had red water covering its chest, like real blood. Surely the sight of this puppet – for a puppet it must be, to be so grossly fashioned – alone wasn't making Erik weep in this way?

"Christine," said a voice warm with relief, and the Vicomte stepped forwards.

Surprised and unnerved by the unwarranted familiarity in his eyes, I stumbled backwards. "Patron," I said formally, "I appreciate your personal visit to convey your well wishes, but why have you brought grief to my wedding night?"

It was grief in his eyes, I found, and not offense, as he turned to Erik. The dark angel had loosed his burden and stood, his pupils nearly ice-white with rage. He looked possessed, but the Vicomte didn't seem to care. "You would have taken her without telling her of what you'd done?"

"She would have been happier without the burden of memories," he said through gritted teeth. "As would have Clarice if you had never come here. Murderer!"

"No, I believe that's your title," Raoul said. Raoul. Why did that name seem so wrong? "She was an obstacle between us and justice - that is, your almost-wife."

This I could understand. "Wife!" I corrected with hostility. "You have done evil to an innocent girl. Leave this home!" Poor Erik. He must be shattered with pain inside. I must tend to him.

"Yes, Vicomte, leave," Erik said softly, his eyes still glittering like snow crystals. "Leave while you can."

Raoul – again, that sour taste in my mouth – chuckled sadly. "You weren't even here, and you defend him. As always." A look of desperate cunning entered his face, and suddenly I was frightened. My eyes cut to Erik, a reflexive plea for help, and his gaze followed mine. "As always." Erik made a sudden movement, and the soldiers seized his arms, holding them in such a way that it was painful for him to make any movement. Raoul himself held a knife to Erik's white throat.

"No!" I shrieked. "Don't hurt him!"

"You want to ensure his safety?" he asked, breathing quickly. "Then come with me."

"Leave my husband!" I exclaimed.

"He's not touched you yet, I'll wager," he said coarsely, and in spite of the pain, Erik began to struggle in indignation. "He's not yet your husband."

"I love him!"

Raoul's eyes had hatred in them. Why did that look so familiar, so naturally known? "Then, just come with me for a week. Let me say what I cannot before him, and then I shall release you."

I paused. Raoul just talking to me. For a week. "And you'll let Erik go? Unharmed? His possessions untouched?" I pressed.

"I give you my word, in front of my men," he swore.

I glared at my husband's captors. "Release him!"

They disregarded my order until Raoul nodded at them. "Do as she says." They slowly let go of their captive, their bayonets still at the ready in case he tried to bolt towards me.

"I'll come back, Erik," I promised. "Stay here. Be safe." I marched to the front door, too upset to pace myself demurely.

"Christine," Erik moaned, and it was the moan of a dying animal. "Please don't go."

The Vicomte spat in his face, and I winced for both of us. "Now you know how I felt, tied against your grate."

An underground lair, lit with candles and full of men's sharp voices cutting each other…and me. A declaration of hatred.

The pain suddenly blossomed over my vision.

I fainted.

I woke in Raoul's arms, and was hit instantly by a dizzying wave of wrongness. "Where's my angel?" I demanded.

His face darkened. "When will you learn, Christine? You have no angel. Only an insane man who likes to hammer on ivory keys."

"And you're only a man who sees no kindness in others!" I spat, and struggled.

He put me gently onto a couch. "You're wrong. I see good in you." I looked around; we were in the living room of his mansion. How did I remember that?

"The table used to be over there," I said faintly.

His eyes gleamed with pleasure. "You remember."

He seemed too eager, too happy to make that statement, so I warned him, "I'm not even sure what I remember, and why." Surprising myself, I added, "And I don't like you at the moment, so for whatever purposes you would have me remember, you can be assured I won't try to please you."

He gave up a deep sigh, looking so forlorn that I could not help but notice how pathetically lovely he looked. "Christine, we used to be best friends." He sidled over to me and gently pulled me against him.

"Wrong, wrong, wrong," I mumbled.

"Christine, haven't you longed for the gentle touch of the man you love?"

"Yes – Erik's!" I cried. But his hands were gently brushing my cheek, my neck, in a manner so tender that I strangely felt some relighting of affection. "Why…why doesn't this bother me?" I wondered, not quite realizing I had said it aloud.

"Do you remember your promise to me on the Opera roof?" he asked. His eyes had lost their cruel edge; they were sincere, soft, and boyish. Innocent for me. "You promised…" He sounded like a little boy who had been told that that his mother had given up on life.

My head hurt. "Stop!" I told him, only aware that he was somehow prompting this pain. But he continued speaking, and a corner of my mind that had become well practiced at such a thing blocked it off. By concentrating on individual notes and words of a song, any song, I could block out that which I knew would cause me unspeakable anguish. I focused on Erik's face, on his gentle sweet beauty, on the luxury of his soft hair.

It passed this way for four months. Raoul had taken no chances; he had taken me to Spain to study with a great past opera singer – a female. He meant well, I suppose, but he had chosen a woman who was so soft and simpering that she was saccharinely disgusting. That's why she was no longer invited to perform. She had no passion, and she let herself be pushed around and ordered. I would have been like that. If it wasn't for Erik – Erik saved me, impaled me with fire. I yearned for Erik's harsh words and insults when I had not learned my lessons as well as I should have. They made me feel alive, aroused within me an angel's vengeance to prove myself.

I kept to my room, plagued by half-visions and glimpses of a past that was becoming all too clear. This past was shattering my understanding of my recent history, creating so many contradictions between the two that I knew not which was real. Erik, my special angel, had once not only been ugly, but had been horrifying. What happened now, I wondered, that he appeared so pleasing to the eye? He had murdered before, but he hadn't lost his temper when Raoul had so stolen me from him a few weeks ago.

Stolen me from him. I had run away from Erik so long ago, I remembered, not because I had been afraid of him, but because I had deluded myself into thinking that Raoul was better for me. Erik - he had lied to me, but he now told me the truth. Or did he?...

What had happened in those months since the final confrontation in his lair beneath the Opera house? Why did he now stay in the attics, instead of the defensive sprawling dungeons? Why did he ignore our entire tumultuous past?

No one in the household would tell me. They had all been carefully schooled – or threatened – by my once-fiancé that they would not reveal to me my recent past. I remembered now almost everything since until before leaving with Raoul, but then my memories skipped to my fake past, the one where I had grown up peaceably with Erik. Wait – I had grown up peacefully with him– but there had been that unpleasant interlude, the chain of events since Raoul entered our opera and fouled everything with his childish innocence.

Where did my memory give way? I wondered. It was like a stenograph; it skipped back to a well-known scratch. I would need to find out. I wondered – where could I quietly find what I sought?

The Spanish Pretender (so my mind labeled the woman masquerading as my Teacher) was pushing me to play Aminta in Don Juan, refusing to acknowledge my pleas never to be in that opera again. The memories were too painful, and without Erik there, both as my drug and pain-killer, I knew my health was failing. But they wouldn't listen. They cast Raoul as Don Juan. An obvious attempt to replace Erik. I struggled against my bonds, furious and frustrated at Raoul, at the Spanish Pretender, at the docile servants – yes, even at Erik.

It was one such night, when I was sitting at my dresser and staring at the porcelain figurines as if to explode them with my gaze, that I heard a carriage roll up to the front door. This in itself was not uncommon; many of the upper class – and middle class – had come to see me in the past few weeks. The upper class wanted to sneer at the Vicomte de Chagny's choice for wife and to torment me with the misleading insinuations about my past. Clearly, they knew more than I…The middle class wanted simply to gain my goodwill by trading upon my social fame.

From this carriage, however, screams were set loose that pierced the night air. Familiar screams. I walked to the window, wanting to run but being too afraid. If it wasn't who I thought it was, I would be crushed. If it was, I would cry out, for someone was making him wail in agony.

It was he. I watched with wide eyes as men, gendarmes, yanked him most cruelly from the black box. He chanced to look up at the sky, his teeth clenched in his agony, and the moon speared her light down to illuminate his chest. A dagger was embedded within his gut. I must have made some noise, for his eyes darted the small distance to mine, and – a chill traced down my spine – his expressions raced through love, helplessness, rage, fury, betrayal as he took me in.

I stumbled away from the window, as surely as if his gaze had pushed me back to the comforts of my white room. I heard Raoul's voice, triumphant and ugly. I heard my name ooze from his lips, and my skin shuddered at hearing it pronounced like that of his personal worshiped goddess. It should be pronounced as if I was owned, as if I was the speaker's to command. That was my place, my desire, and I wanted it. I didn't want the white pedestal, I wept to myself, I wanted the black drawl of challenge.

I wrapped my crimson dressing robe about myself – the one thing that reminded me of Erik with which Raoul had not managed to convince me to part – and opened the door. The hallway was cool and dimly lit. I drew a breath and began the song I remembered the Phantom and I had birthed on our way down to his lair. Fitting now, I thought, that I would sing that song; down once more to the depths of some mystery and torture to which I would be drawn for the sake of relieving his pain.

I was about to take the first step outside my room, but my nude foot stopped, poised, above the carpet. My head was sending out warning pulses of pain, and suddenly, two memories fused together: Raoul and I entering his home after leaving my angel's lair for the final time. He kissed me, then, and I had felt vaguely disgusted by his obvious impatience to have me. So soon after the Phantom's lips – finally! – upon mine…it was uncouth, like hosting a tea party the afternoon of one's best friend's funeral.

It was unsettling, but I set my foot down firmly. Erik's song continued to croon softly in my ear, more gentle and sweet now. At the foot of the stairs leading to the ancient weapon room of the Chagny's mansion, I suddenly clutched the banister. I heard my Angel's cry, followed by sobbing. Another memory, more recent: "She has chosen me, Vicomte… You can have no objection to our union!"… "She has chosen you while she was under the delusions of fever and madness."

He will rob me of everything.

I went on, squaring my shoulders and becoming angrier as I went, like waking in a bed from a nightmare bound by sweat-soaked sheets. Why were both of these men hiding these things from me? All I wanted was to be loved by music, a pure and awesome passion to control me and make me submit. They were pushing me down to their own notions, their own ideas of my supposed-fragile nature.

Light came unexpectedly from around the corner, and I plastered myself to the stone wall and listened. Raoul had installed a grate in the walls, I remembered dimly. Not many prison cells, such as might be used in the service of the police at some point. Just one, steel-protected room. Then – my mind suddenly went blank as insistent pain throbbed against my left temple. I listened to the voices as I vainly tried to recapture the thought.

"So the Phantom has been captured at last," Raoul's voice said. So boyish, so lighthearted – contrary to his words. "You are losing your touch, Villain."

Erik said nothing, but then I heard him gasp. The next sound sickened me: the sound of blood-choked coughs, and the sound of a metal dagger being dropped to the floor. "Physician," Raoul called in disdain. "Heal this man, or he'll die."

My heart was racing, but my legs could not move, could not comprehend the meaning of the words. "Fool," the Phantom's voice said, rough and sandpapered with pain, "your 'cures' are doing more harm than good. If you would let me use the tools –"

"Do not listen. I would not see a needle in his hands when my body is within his vicinity. Bind his hands." Chains rattled on the wall. I shut my eyes; this nightmare could not be happening. None of my characters whom I had played had been in this situation. What could I do?

Footsteps made from finely fashioned silk approached, and I fled the room in confusion. From behind me, I heard Raoul's voice: "If I were you, I would make yourself comfortable with your cell; it will be your only inspiration for music. I'll have paper and a quill sent down."

Dastardly Raoul! Just when it was getting good! ... oh, grrr, get out of the way!

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