A/N: Another chapter because absolutely nothing happened in that last one. Well, I'm sure it was a big deal for Erik, but even he didn't throw a fit over Emilie's first day of school. Where is the obsessive, over-protective Erik we know and love? Hopefully he'll be back soon(er than we'd thought). Anyways, enjoy!
Chapter 15
As painful as it had been to leave her in the morning, Erik found there was little sweeter than stepping into the dressing room in the afternoon to have Émilie leap into his arms in a bundle of pink tulle and exclaim, "Papa, a kiss, please!" Mindful of Madame Giry in the room, but still deliriously happy to be asked for his touch in public, he laid his masked mouth against her forehead. This was happiness, he thought. This was love. This was the delerium he would embrace without fear, willingly.
Erik had to force himself to focus on what Madame Giry was saying.
"…lovely girl, Monsieur. Christine would have been very proud."
"Yes, yes," he murmured distractedly. "She is proud."
The woman let a quizzical furrow of her brow betray her expression for a moment. Nadir had tried to explain the delicate situation though, so she spoke no more on the subject. Instead she said, "She's a little shy but we'll get her talking before long. And I daresay she'll sleep well tonight. She fell right asleep in the middle of class. But she'll strengthen up. Soon she'll be dancing just like her – just like Meg." Instantly Madame Giry returned to dignified silence.
"I thank you, Madame, as always." The phantom, too, seemed to be struggling to recollect his own dignity. Gone was the regal statue of the morning.
"Will you bring her tomorrow, Monsieur?"
"Yes, Madame."
xxx
Of course Erik watched her. He knew what she learned, who she was with, what she heard. Yet every night, he listened to her endless retellings as if all were brand new to him. It was worth letting her go for a few hours each day to have these evenings. His beautiful girl was happy to come home to him. To her Erik. There was no more madness in her. No more pacing. Her fingers healed without scarring.
Because he watched her, Erik knew the question would soon come from his daughter as to just who the opera ghost was. Having realized Émilie did not sleep in the dormitories with them, the other ballerinas had asked where she lived. Dutiful child that she was, Émilie recited, "By the lake in the fifth cellar of the Opera Garnier," and the rumors started.
"Are you the phantom of the opera, papa?" she asked over dinner.
Having given it some thought, he had decided incredulous nonchalance would be his strategy. "Why would you ask that?"
"My friends say that the phantom of the opera lives in the fifth cellar and because Émilie also lives in the fifth cellar, she must know the phantom but I don't know any phantom. I only know you. So are you the phantom?"
He began slowly. "I…used to be the phantom-" Émilie's face lit up "—but not anymore. I am only a man."
Her face fell and she chewed on her lip. Only Erik was not nearly as exciting as a phantom for a father. "Why not anymore?"
"Being a phantom is a lot of work. Erik cannot do that and take care of Émilie and Christine."
"Oh…Can I be a phantom?"
"No!"
"Why not?" she whined. She was getting good at whining since she had started with the dance lessons.
"Because Erik says so."
"Papa, that is a bad reason. I want to be a phantom too."
"No!" he stood up from the table, desperate to escape a situation that threatened his grip on sanity. He took a breath. "No, you cannot. Only certain people can be phantoms and you are not one of them." He strode to the door.
"Is that why I can't wear a mask?"
Erik's body went rigid, his hands frozen and clenched at his sides. He happened to be wearing his own mask at that moment, having left it on after retrieving Émlie from Madame Giry. Now his hand flew to it, making sure it was secure.
"You mock my face?" he snarled. Émilie, who hadn't noticed his change in mood was surprised and slipped out of her chair to stand ready for a fight. "You have a perfect face. What would you know of it, you stupid child? You must be so ashamed to speak to your little friends about Erik. As the opera ghost, I was feared. No one would dare laugh about the opera ghost. But when it's just me, what use is that? Now I'm just a man with a hideous face. Or perhaps you're not ashamed? Perhaps you laugh at Erik and his unfortunate face. Yes, that's it. You think it's amusing that I must wear a mask, like a monstrous costume! Something I can take off at will! But no! The mask is beautiful compared to what lies beneath."
At that he ripped it from his face, the ties pulling quite a bit of his sparse hair with it. For a moment, he gazed at the thing with disgust, then hurled it across the table with enough force to hit the vase with the dead roses and send it all to the ground where the vase shattered. Erik's subconscious saw Émilie leap back onto her chair to avoid the shards and he covered his face with his hands so she wouldn't have to look at him anymore. "The hideous face beneath…" he moaned. "How can you understand when you are so beautiful? Christine never could – can. Never can. She does not understand." Tears dripped through his fingers and spattered his coat sleeves.
"Papa?" Émilie breathed. She had come to stand before him.
Slowly he raised his terrible face to hers, though he kept his hands half covering it. With only him for company, she had never learned to school her expressions. All her emotions shone plainly in her eyes. At this moment, there was only confusion. Not the pity Christine unwittingly displayed. Or the fear others betrayed at his rages. Only pure, childish confusion.
"I don't understand. Papa, explain, please."
"Does this face repulse you?"
"What do you mean?"
"Do you find it ugly?"
She didn't answer.
"Come now," he said, taking her by the shoulders. "Look closely. How can you bear to have this for a father? Surely you wish I looked more like one of the handsome men you see in the park. Well?" He shook her.
"Don't they wear masks too?"
Erik's hand slipped and Émilie's momentum carried her into the edge of the table. She hit the edge with a soft thud and slipped to the floor, but she wasn't hurt. Just picked herself up and looked ready to push him down in turn if she could manage it.
Erik, however, cried out in his own pain and fled the kitchen. He didn't stop until he was locked in Christine's room and there he wailed, "Christine! Oh, Christine, forgive your Erik. No, he is not worthy to ask that. Oh, Christine! I have hurt your child. She is so young. She does not know the harm in what she says. What have I done? Christine must take her daughter and run. Take her, my angel, and leave poor Erik. He is not fit to be a father!"