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Chapter Eighteen: July Calms

It was as if a war that had been waged for a long time was over inside of the house, and the air held the chilled feel of empty battlefields and meaningless battles. That day in June when she had so rashly made her decision to kill seemed a lifetime ago, driven by fear and anger that had somehow leaked out of her when the battle ended, leaving her drained and weary. The days blended into each other, days without sunrise or sunset, fresh air or stars; just music and for both of them the difficult process of making up what had been done to them and what they had done to each other. The air was stale, the two small players on their chessboard bound to each other by regret and difficult forgiveness, and on one side love, one side pity and a certain resigned anger.

And so it was another summer morning, another voice lesson, another moment of dancing around feelings with uncertainty and discomfort. Christine stood behind him in the music room, her eyes tracing the already familiar contours of his back, where the bones lay and jutted, how the fabric whispered when he moved and hung off his thin frame like a shroud. After being locked in solitude with him for two months she knew every movement he made as if it were her own, knew the cut of his suits and the angle of his shoulders and the dips and hollows of the mask.

The clock told her that it was just after noon as she finished her scales and watched him sort through piles of music, searching for the right song. Lately lessons had started beginning earlier and earlier and lasting later; he was fanatical about her voice, driving her to perfection until she was amazed at how far she had come. But Christine also knew that it was not only her voice that drove these long hours, it was her very presence: these lessons were the only time they ever connected, ever spoke without reservation. During lessons she pushed all unwanted thoughts from her head and focused on music, on the cathartic purge of emotion and relief that it brought both of them. Sometimes it was almost like happiness.

Though without the music, in the silent between moments, his stiff back and harsh coldness and her quiet resistance and bitterness showed the strains of all that had happened; all was not forgiven yet. Christine doubted that it ever would be.

'He kidnapped me and I tried to kill him,' she thought ironically as she watched him select a piece and place it smoothly on the piano. 'After everything I think that we are both just too broken to be fixed, though we fight for what can never be.'

As always the unwanted thought rose in her head. 'Maybe I never will get out of here. Maybe this will always be my life.'

She tried very hard not to let the thought depress her, but just the same she was relieved that it was a sad song and made no excuses when she felt tears on her face by the end, as she so often did.

When the song was over he turned to her and studied her face, his yellow eyes staring at the wet marks of her tears as if he had never seen anything like them before. There was silence for a long time as his gaze slowly drifted up the tear trails to her eyes. Christine found herself holding her breath as he looked at her; the moment seemed charged, heavy, his eyes too intense with an indiscernible emotion.

Finally he sighed and looked away, and the moment was broken. "You did very well today, Christine," he murmured, his head tilted to watch his hands as they skimmed across the polished surface of the keys without making a sound. "Very well. I am very happy with the hard work you have put into these past few weeks."

Christine felt her pulse lodge in her throat; it was the first praise she had heard from him since that night in June. "Thank….thank you."

"I have thought, since you have worked so hard, since we have an understanding…" He turned to regard her again, his eyes suddenly pleading and unsure. "I thought that you might like to go somewhere with me."

Christine was taken aback. "Where?" She asked warily, and she could see the edges of his mouth curl upward.

"Outside."

She resisted the urge to stomp her foot like a child. "Where outside?" She asked, a bit petulantly.

"To someplace quiet and beautiful. Would you like to go outside, Christine?"

Suddenly she saw that he was serious and felt the breath whoosh out of her lungs. "You're serious?" She gasped.

He nodded somberly. "But you would have to promise not to try to run away," he said, his words soft. "You know that it would be fruitless." It was almost a question, like he still didn't know if she fully understood her situation.

Christine tried not to smile too widely but she felt her calm facade cracking with emotion. "Oh yes! Of course! Please, let's go outside!"

She was acting like a child, and some part of her mind berated her for being so excited in front of him, so happy to just be leaving the house. But oh, to be outside in the summer heat! It seemed suddenly an impossible dream.

He was watching her tenderly, and Christine flushed. "When?" She asked, turning her head so she would not have to see those heartbreaking eyes.

"This evening, after dinner." He turned his back to the music and flicked through the sheets, signifying the end of the conversation. "Now how about a happier song, my dear. All that crying when you sing is really not good for the voice."

"Alright." She steadied her shoulders and tried not to think about the outside. It seemed so long ago that she ran from the house, though it was only weeks, but she had been so frantic and half mad with panic that she hadn't been able to appreciate the fresh air. Christine was so tired of this dark house with its stale air, the vague dead smell that she associated with him, the never changing scenery, the forever cold night without day. She missed the equilibrium of sleeping when it was dark and rising with the sun. She missed so many little things. 'How much I took for granted,' she mused as she launched into the song. 'And now I'm so happy just to go outside for one night.'

A small, squirming voice inside her head told her that she was being pathetic, that she was playing into his hands, acting exactly as he wanted her to act, but she suppressed it fiercely. If it took a few smiles and conversations and calm moments to be free, to taste clean air, if that was playing into his hands, then she was happy to do it. Anything, anything to go home, to get her life back. Anything to go outside.

The time after lessons seemed to drag on forever, but finally dinner was over. Christine stood in her room and shrugged on a tank top. 'It's July,' she reminded herself. 'It's warm, outside of this house. Oh, warmth!' She ran her hands through her hair before knotting it in a thick ponytail. For a moment Christine let her fingers drift to the hollow at her neck and held them there, feeling the shy flutter of her pulse, warm, alive; she needed the reassurance of life. She felt like a child on Christmas day.

He was waiting for her as she stepped out of the confines of her room, his long pale hands playing with the cuffs of his white shirt, his only concession to the outside heat. She stared at him, her eyes drawn to the nervous motion, and found that it made him more human. He so often seemed like a dark ghost, like if she couldn't see the rise and fall of his chest she would fear he wasn't breathing, but suddenly he seemed lanky and anxious. In the crisp white shirt his limbs seemed too long, his bones protruding so sharply against the soft material, his exposed skin too pale, those unnervingly elongated fingers practically the same color as the cuffs. She smiled at him, and his nervousness calmed, his hands dropping elegantly to his sides.

"Are you ready?" He asked. His hand twitched as if he wanted to offer it to her but did not.

Christine nodded and noticed the same gray door that had been there the day she had escaped, and had disappeared afterward as mysteriously as it appeared. The sight of it made her heart beat faster; a door meant freedom, however slight.

He led her out the door and into the same labyrinthine, twisting hallways that she had seen during her escape, though this time there was no light and in the enclosed corridors she found herself stumbling. Erik walked in front of her, his white shirt opalescent in the darkness and Christine unconsciously reached for it, grasping the soft material between two fingers. His eyes, eerily alight behind the mask, glanced down at her, surprised, and she shrugged weakly.

"I don't want to lose my way. I can barely see."

He didn't say anything, just looked at her with what could almost be amusement in those lit eyes, and kept walking, making turns as easily as if the corridors were filled with light.

And then they were outside on the cracked pavement with the stars so high and cold above them and the breeze warm and real around them, and Christine could have kissed the ground.

Stepping away from him, she turned her face to the sky and drew in a long breath, feeling the smells of summer and the city fill her head. The night heat was soothing, humidity heavy like a blanket around her shoulders, and the sky above her was black and endless.

"It's beautiful,' she whispered, tears in her eyes. He said nothing, just looked at her and let her breathe.

Finally she turned back to him and he gestured toward a dark car in the empty parking lot that she had not noticed before. "Come," he murmured, "Or we'll be late."

Christine frowned at him as she followed his outstretched hand. "Late?" She asked, but he didn't say anything else, just opened the passenger door for her and watched as she got in.

She was rather surprised that he drove but he seemed comfortable in the small dark space of the car, his hands curled around the wheel, eyes fixated on the road through the tinted windshield. It was a good excuse for not talking, and they both sat in almost comfortable silence as the car wound through the city streets.

After a few minutes they approached a park and the road around them became shaded with trees. Christine pressed her face against the window, curious as to where they were going. The fear to be alone with him had all but subsided; after two months even her paranoid brain had accepted that he would never cause her physical harm.

'Psychological harm, however,' she thought wryly as she watched the dark trees skim past her. 'I'll need some serious therapy after this.'

She still tried to convince herself that there would be an 'after this.'

Finally the car slowed to a rolling stop in a shadowed, forgotten parking lot at the edge of the woods. "We're here," he murmured, his voice pleased.

Quietly she opened the door and stepped out into the cool darkness. "Where are we?" she asked.

He came around to her side and gently shut the car door behind her. "A little further," he said, not answering her question. "We have to walk."

Christine looked into the dark woods and felt a thrill of nervousness. The trees before her crowded thickly together; she had no idea what park she was in but the trees seemed to stretch out forever, tangled roots and long grass obscuring the ground. He shifted in the darkness beside her and she turned to see him nervously stretch out an arm.

"I don't want you to fall," he explained as she stared at his arm as if it were a strange object she had never seen before. He began to shift restlessly, his eyes wary and uneasy, until she slowly moved to hook his arm within her own. She could sense his smile as they began to move slowly through the trees; against her arm his shirt felt cool, the skin beneath it cold but not unpleasantly so, the thin shifting muscles corded like sinew. She was glad for his arm as she stumbled on gnarled roots; she was glad that they had called a truce, that hostility had turned to wary understanding and regard. She was so tired of fighting all the time.

The trees suddenly broke and an oasis of smooth grass stretched before her, empty and silent except for the shrill cicadas and grasshoppers. Breathing a low sigh of relief at being out of the woods, Christine released her light grasp on his arm and moved forward a few steps, her head tilted upwards where she could finally see stars.

"Do you know what day it is, Christine?" Erik's voice was soft and at first she didn't even know if he had spoken at all. She pulled herself away from the view and turned to him.

"I don't have any idea, but I know it's June or July…" she trailed off as she saw his lips curl upwards below the mask.

"It's the fourth," he murmured. Christine stared at him for a moment, her brow wrinkled in confusion.

"What…"

The rest of her sentence was smothered by the booming crash that echoed over her head. Spinning around, Christine gaped like a child at the rush of sparkling color that arced like a waterfall in the sky.

"Oh my God…" she whispered in awe. She hadn't seen fireworks since she was a child with her father. The sound boomed around her again; she could feel it roll inside of her bones, shudder down her spine like music. Blossoming flowers of crimson folded outward into the darkness, sparking and burning. She felt tears creep to the edge of her eyes; it was beauty like this that made her cry, beauty that almost hurt.

'Why does everything beautiful hurt lately?' she thought, suddenly thinking of the dark man standing quietly behind her. 'Why is it all excruciating?'

Like a child she sat in the grass and tilted her head to the sky; the summer air tasted sweet in her mouth and the grass beneath her fingers was damp and lush. The colors arced and collided above her, vibrant reds and greens and golds.

She sat and watched the fireworks until the last boom shook and faded, leaving only drifting smoke and silence behind, and tried not to think.

A hand touched her shoulder. "Did you enjoy that?"

Christine reluctantly stood and turned to him to nod wordlessly. His eyes widened and she was surprised when he raised one long hand to her face.

"You are crying," he said softly as he lightly brushed the wetness on her cheeks. She started and brought a hand up to touch her eyelashes.

"I didn't know."

"No matter what I do I seem to make you cry," he whispered as he broke away from her, and that strange need to comfort him rose in her mind.

"No," she said, plucking at his shirt again but as usual not touching his skin. "No, I liked this. Thank you. It was beautiful. And you…we….we have a truce, don't we. This is…" she studied his eyes as they glowed softly above her. "…peaceful," she finished.

"Yes," he said, his voice like ripples through water. "A truce."

He offered her his arm again and she took it, pausing before she walked to stare back over the empty space of grass that had for a few moments given her freedom. Some figure, some blur of color moved within the trees at the far side, and a shout of laughter filled the air.

Christine felt Erik stiffen beside her as he turned to look at the group of rowdy college students that had just broken out of the trees. His grasp shifted to grip her upper arm, and she gasped at how cold his hand was.

"Let's go," he commanded as he pulled her back toward the trees. His voice was suddenly low and dangerous. She followed hesitantly, her head still turned toward the people. Were her eyes deceiving her?

"Christine?"

A blond young man called her name, and her heart stopped. "Raoul!" she whispered, her mouth dry, stopping in her tracks as she stared at him. He started to jog toward her, calling her name.

"Christine, Christine is that you?"

Startled, Christine opened her mouth as if to call back but the hand around her arm tightened painfully.

"Him!" Erik hissed, his yellow eyes glowing hatefully in the darkness, his mouth bared into a snarl. He looked as if he wanted to kill Raoul, but seemed to think better of it and instead jerked her into the trees.

She could still hear Raoul behind her as Erik dragged through the dark space. They were moving faster than she could maintain equilibrium, and every time her feet caught in a knotted root she stumbled, only to have him pull her arm harder toward him. Behind her she heard crashing and wondered dizzily if Raoul was chasing them. Thin branches whipped at her face and tangled in her hair, and sharp sticker bushes clung to her pants. Sweat rolled down her face and she struggled to keep up; her heart pounded in her ears until she could hear nothing else.

"Erik, wait…slow down," she gasped, her legs nearly going out from under her as her ankle lodged in a root, but he didn't even look at her, only moved faster. For the first time in weeks she was afraid of him; his hand was tight around her arm with suppressed violence, and Christine suddenly had a deep and painful fear for Raoul's life.

'Oh, Raoul,' she thought as they burst from the woods. 'What have you done?'