Chapter 17: Dresses and Hats

Artur sat down on a crate in what had been unofficially dubbed the conference room. The lantern was still sitting on the floor in the midst of the various boxes and trinkets, and still made him wary. Lanterns seemed volatile things to him- what if it exploded and set the theatre on fire? Eter's presence beside him calmed his suspicion for the moment, but he would never carry one again.

The rest of the performers entered all grave and quiet. Christine's absence left a hole where there would have been light and life. Anna was gone, too, and Nadir. Their banter was something all of them would miss should they not survive their stay in the sick room. Erik waited until everyone was seated to speak.

"You all know by now that Christine has been taken." His voice was flat and emotionless. Her absence weakens him, and he does not want us to know because he is a leader. A leader must be strong. He is being strong now, to have the courage to direct us. "The opera has been temporarily vacated; the workers and crews are safe. What I am about to ask of you is not going to be safe or easy. In fact, some of you may die- but Christine is a friend to us all. If you will help me bring the duke to justice, my debt to you all would be eternal." Here his head dipped for a split second, but he held it high again, his mask a warm shade of yellow in the light.

He feared their response. What if none of them helped him and Christine was left in the hands of the duke? He feared for her as well- what if she was being tortured or used as a bed warmer at the moment? There were far too many 'what if's' to worry about, so he shut them out and looked up again.

Surprisingly, the normally quiet Artur was the first to speak. "He means what he says. Have faith in him, and all will be right in the end. I, for one, am not afraid of the duke. He is like any other corrupt person." He nodded at Erik. "I will help you. How hard can it be to retrieve one woman from a house?"

It was unspoken, but understood: wherever Artur went, and whatever he did, Eter would support him. Marcus, who was leaning against the doorframe, looked over the people and counted heads; there were seven of them, if one as old as Mme. Giry could truly be considered able-bodied enough to fight. Then again, he had seen her when she had defended Christine from her first would-be kidnappers. He himself had no weapon but his mind and perception, and he knew himself to have terrible aim with a pistol. That left five people against the entire police force, an unnaturally skilled and agile assassin, any number of armed, paid thugs, and the duke himself. The odds were terrible.

"It can be impossible." Marcus reached out the doorway and pulled the bound and gagged spy, M. Bennue from behind the door. "I would like to introduce to you the guilty spy."

Erik glanced at the rather wary-looking man. The dirty clothes were just recognizable. "No need to introduce him, Marcus. He is quite well-known already," he hissed, seizing the man by his shirt front. "In fact, I believe we will be holding his funeral quite soon."

"No, actually, we will not hold his funeral. He has information, and I'm sure he would be more than willing to share it." Here Marcus glared sidelong at the terrified man. "Is that correct?"

The former spy could only nod, dizzy and scared stiff by Erik's glinting eyes.

"Well?" the composer growled. "Tell all- or would you rather have it worse for you than all the tortures in the duke's prison? I am well-equipped for such things, I'll have you know." He looked back at the spy's captor. "What is his name?"

"Jacques Bennue. He has a wife and son, so if you have any humanity in you, let him go back to them." Erik released the unfortunate man, who stumbled and fell to his knees with a thud.

"I will…when he gives me the information I need," he said, pulling M. Bennue up again. "Do we have an agreement, spy?" he hissed.

It took a nudge from the cool-headed baritone to make him speak. "Go on. You will not regret this. In fact, I'm quite sure M. Erik would gladly pay you double your former wages." He received a look from his maestro that made him regret his words. Thankfully, his attention was stolen again as the trembling worker began to speak.

"W-we do monsieur." He glanced around the room, taking in all vengeful and disapproving stares.

"You'd best get on with the telling, then. I could leave you in this room for an hour with the people around you and have them interrogate you. Trust me," he threatened, "they will not be gentle with you."

…

Christine gazed out through the shutters at the setting sun. She could only see the rays of the sun's fire and the pastel clouds above the mansion's high walls. It was beautiful, even when seen from a gilded cage. That's what the mansion was, really. She had been given good food, drink, shelter, and even a piano with which to amuse herself, but she was confined to her room and feeling extremely cramped.

Erik was not there with her. He was probably coming just then, for sure, with Eter and Artur and a few others to subdue Philippe. Hopefully Ciara wouldn't be there to defend him and kill her friends. The people I know are dead set against each other. I have to do something, but what? As much as she hated Philippe for taking her captive to snare her Erik, she did not want him dead.

She wanted him to spend a long life in prison. He deserved it. Then again, what would that do to Ciara? She loves him. It would hurt her; make her a more dangerous enemy than the duke, even. She did not want anyone to be hurt. Perhaps it was one of her weaknesses. Either way, someone is scarred, or incarcerated, or killed. It didn't help at all to be the hostage in the situation.

The lock on the door clicked and squeaked as it swung open, but she did not hear footsteps. Ciara. She makes no sound, not even when she walks. "I am not hungry, and I do not fancy new soap, thank you very much." She turned around, and was met with the sight of the blind girl sitting down at the upright piano. Her fingers beckoned, and Christine stepped towards her warily. "Do you play?"

To this, an odd sequence of notes poured out, sounding very much like a broken music box. When the white fingers slid away, she noticed small letters branded into the keys. So this is how she speaks… "Pardon? I didn't quite catch that."

Ciara played the sequence again, this time slower. Tell me about love.

"Love? If you saw Erik and me, you know about love. Why tell should I tell you more?" She did her best to stamp out the stirrings of sisterly affection she felt for this strange individual. She was so much like a young child, albeit a tall, mature-looking one.

I love Philippe. I want to make sure he loves me, came the blunt answer. Christine furrowed her brow in confusion. Sensing her confusion, Ciara clarified: I want him to love me.

"You cannot force him to love you." There go my attempts at keeping my distance… she sighed inwardly. This person's innocent openness and inexperience almost reminded her of herself. She must have lived a very sheltered life not to know courtship and couples.

Is that not what courting is? Ciara spelled out. Christine raised an eyebrow. Clever girl, she did have a point.

"Then court him. He doesn't seem adverse to the idea." It was best to keep things simple for her. This affair would most likely go flat anyway, what with Philippe and his criminal exploits.

He does not seem warm to the idea either.

"You can make him warm to the idea."

How? Christine sighed. She was supposed to be a prisoner, not a mother or a counselor. Tell me.

"Be pretty for him." She eyed the black combat clothes Ciara wore. "Have you ever worn a dress, or something that looks even slightly feminine?" As courteous as my father taught me to act around strangers, these are special circumstances. The albino tugged at her shirt, suddenly uncomfortable.

Once. He was not affected.

"How do you know?" Now she paused, unsure and a far cry from the deadly fighter she had been just hours before. "I know you don't think much of appearance, but that's part of the work."

He knows I think not on appearance. I cannot put on those cosmetics you do.

"Are you going to let me help you or not?" Christine huffed, almost offended. The girl had practically called her vain.

Why are you helping me? Ciara played, suspicious. Was this prisoner using her?

"I am helping you because you love him, and no one should have to loves someone who doesn't love them back." That answer was enough. There was honesty in her voice. It amazed her, the sincerity with which her captive spoke. Perhaps listening to her was not completely forbidden, even if Philippe desired that she not fraternize with the enemy.

What do I have to do?

…

The pale woman's name was Charlotte Daestro. She was the daughter of an aristocrat, bred and born for high society and not the dump of an apartment she was currently staying in. She was not living there, but dying.

Her daughter, the product of her womb and her late husband, was now two. Little Ciara, she was hid away. Charlotte was not so negligent as to refuse the child a name, nor was she so heartless as to try and kill her child by starvation or exposure. She had named her child and kept her in the back of the apartment, with food and water on a regular basis. She maintained Ciara's cleanliness, kept her from harm, and protected her from contact with those who might corrupt her.

It was what she did to satisfy her conscience.

She did not love the little girl, and it cost her to keep her when she could barely afford to eat herself. It was impossible to give her away to an orphanage or a convent, as she was blind and looked like a ghost- or even a demon- with her red eyes.

It was late afternoon, and the sun shone through the dirty windows of the small kitchen. She had learned early on that her daughter's skin burned the moment it touched the light, so she drew the ragged, dusty curtains closed before she began preparing dinner.

She cared for the girl mechanically; in fact, since her father's death, everything had become mechanical. Yes, she had suckled the baby, but wet nurses did that as well, did they not? The toddling so much resembled her father in personality and looks…that had to be it: she was her father reincarnate. The thought made her shudder. Was her father back to haunt her for his untimely death- for her failure to protect him?

At last, dinner (a thin vegetable stew) was ready. She poured it out into one of the two bowls that she owned and trod with heavy steps to the back room. A soft shuffling was heard behind the cracked door. It was inhuman, the way Ciara could sense her meals coming, and move about her small room as if she were not blind. Yet she was blind, for sure- so the doctor said, and so her mother knew, because she could not distinguish between different pieces of paper and flat surfaces.

Charlotte opened the door and set the bowl down on the wooden floor, watching emotionlessly as the babe dipped her fingers into the hot food and began scooping it into her mouth. She closed the door, ignoring the soft sniffling and the sound of food spilling. She would clean it up later, when she knew the little thing was asleep and she could avoid contact with her.

Times were hard. Because her father had died, and her brothers had inherited all that he'd had, she was left with nothing but the luggage and money from her trip to the Ottoman Empire. Her siblings had resented the fact that she was gifted with political skill and wisdom, and that her father favored her above them. They had their compensation now, when she was dirt poor and cursed with a ghost child. They lived the high life and wiped all record and memory of her existence from their accounts.

Just as well that she be an official bastard child, for what good would her title do her now? She could feel herself slowly going mad as well, sinking into depression. Perhaps she belonged in an asylum, but was it true madness that gripped her, or simply frustration? Either way, Ciara could not be left alone and at the mercy of the world. The guilt would drive her insane for sure.

She opened the curtains again, and gazed silently out the window at the boys playing in the street. Perhaps she needed another child to pull her back from the brink, and give her something new to care for- or would that only bring more shame on herself for getting pregnant and being unable to care for the baby? No, it was best not to have another child.

She drew the curtains again, enclosing herself in the darkness and dust of the attic apartment.

…

Erik frowned. The spy had known only of the legal office and its contents, not the exact layout of the d'Orleans mansion and the exact location of Christine's room. He would have to do a more private search, perhaps even rescue her himself. I can only hope she is not in pain or hurt in any way. Stress lines that had disappeared with her appearance now reappeared when she disappeared.

He missed her desperately- her smile, and the smell of her hair, and the way she spoke to him without fear or cold indifference- hence his late-night journey to survey and map the duke's oversized house.

It was not the cold that set a chill in his bones, but the thought that Christine might be used as a bed warmer for the night. It grew more and more likely with each passing minute. With that in mind, he glided up the iron fence and into the estate.

The grass was soft under his feet, ice crystals melting as the soles of his boots compressed them into the damp soil. It took but a minute for him to cross the stretch to the brick walls of the great house. The brickwork was old and eroded with ivy, a simple thing to climb. The mansion was of average size, easy to explore because of its square floor plan. It had but two floors. That's oddly modest for a royal snob who must be disgustingly rich. He probably owns another mansion in someplace like Venice.

He reached the roof and gazed down into the courtyard- and almost tripped. What should have been an expanse of grass, gardens, and stone pathways were instead layers of white sheets that seemed much closer than the ground. Would they hold his weight? Most likely. He slid to the edge of the roof and took a jump into the swathes of cloth. What sort of lunatic completely covers his gardens and keeps them from sunlight? The landing was less than soft, and more than a little startling. The canvas caught him, but he bounced back, unsteady as he was catapulted back into the air. It took reflexes he had not used for several years to right himself, twisting in the air like a cat, in order to keep from snapping his neck. It does provide adequate protection from the average thief…

A warm light shone from a room just yards from where he had landed, and Christine's soft voice was heard. "Try and hum. If you can cry, you can certainly hum and speak." She was with someone, but not the duke- who? Curious, he crept closer. A hoarse rasp was heard in reply to her instructions, and then a pattering of piano keys in no particular order- a sequence that sounded frustrated, by the way it was accented and grew louder with each note.

"Touch your throat. Make it vibrate, and for heaven's sake, relax!" Erik positioned himself below her window. She did not sound as if she were distressed, only exasperated. Her heavy sigh was plainly audible as well. Another rasp floated through the window, this time with a tiny, low squeak at the end. Christine nearly squealed with excitement. "You did it!" What in the world is she doing? There was another plinking of the piano.

"Well, how long can you stay here tomorrow without Philippe being suspicious?" The piano makes speech? The person with her must be mute. Therefore…she was teaching him or her to speak- or at least vocalize. Gullible Christine, to help everyone, including an enemy, but I love her for it. "Then might I leave the room tomorrow?" Two short, close notes followed. "Why?"

It is a sort of musical cipher… The reply this time was longer. Then: "Oh. Well, good evening to you." There was an almost thoughtful pause, but Christine spoke again with a last comment. "Practice. You can speak- I know so." The door closed, the strange mute had left.

Erik immediately stood and pressed his gloved hand against the glass. He knocked. Christine looked up, startled for a moment, and rushed to him, pulling at the locked shutters. He held up a finger. Wait. His hand withdrew to extract a small, crooked bit of metal and pick at the latch on the window. It squeaked as it opened outwards, causing a wince on his part.

"Erik!" She reached through the slats of wood and grasped his hand, twisting their fingers together. "How did you get here?" He smirked even as the heat of her skin was absorbed through the leather of his gloves and leaked into his palm.

"I came over the fence, across the lawn, up the wall, and down the other side. Shall we go?" He felt for the lock on the shutters, the metal pick still clutched between his fingers.

"Wait- I cannot go yet." I long to go with you, Erik, but there are things that need doing- and a person who needs mercy and kindness just as everyone else does.

"Why not? Christine, I fear you are not safe here!" He bowed to kiss her cold fingertips, wishing he could protect her from even the cold.

"No, you are the one who is in danger! Erik, the duke wants you dead, not me!" she said, grasping his arm through the bars of the shutters. "And…the woman, the one who took me- she needs my help. She does not know love- or how to love!"

"What of your father?" This made her visibly flinch, and he immediately regretted his words. Then strength returned to her gaze, and the moonlight revealed the moisture at the corners of her eyes. My Christine…when did you learn such determination?

"I have faith in you, Erik. You can rescue him- rescue him first!" Then an idea came to her, and if it succeeded… "I need to find out why the duke hates you so. He must have some link to you. If I can find this out, I can find the way to stop him." His grip on her hand doubled in strength, and she winced, but made no complaint. He sensed the pain from her expression and forced himself to relax…at least, he forced his arm to.

Is this an enemy from my past? Christine should not have to endure the judgments for my wrongs. His jaw tightened, and a half-physical illness spread through his gut. What if she found his crimes somehow and hated him? He would surely waste away should she turn from him. "I would not have you know the crimes of my past. You would never trust me." He looked down, not wishing to see her eyes.

"Erik, look at me." Her voice swayed his decision to keep his eyes down. "Please." At her word, he obeyed, and tried to digest the fact that her hand was still in his despite his admission. "I know you. If there was anything wrong- anything- that you did, I will know you in the past, and that the past you is not the present you or the future you."

Erik felt ready to cry. His mismatched eyes, shining bright with salty moisture, met hers through the locked wooden barrier. "You- you are sure?" Christine smiled her reassuring smile and reached farther to touch the bare skin of his bony wrist.

"I am sure." She withdrew her hand and pressed her fingers to her lips, then transferred the kiss to his hand with a light pat. "Go, find my father. He needs rescuing more than I do." She cannot stay here without a safeguard of some sort.

"On one condition: these shutters will be unlocked." She nodded, with a pleased expression now spreading over her smooth face. He snaked his abnormally thin arm as far as he could through the openings and picked the lock. "I… Good night, Christine." He turned to climb the wall and leave, but the shutters swung open and he was seized around the neck.

It took all his will to avoid striking out in a fit of instinctive defensiveness, but he felt as if he would melt when Christine pulled him forward and pressed her lips to his. Truly, I thought the woman was traditionally the one to receive kisses…but this is just as good, I believe. He held her as close as he dared (and as close as the window's frame would allow). She released him, breathless, after about ten seconds. Up close, she could see the tears in his reflective eyes. "Good night, Erik."

He would have liked to stand there kissing all night, but instead he squeezed her hand for a moment, nodded at her, and closed the window. She followed his lead and closed the shutters, watching him flit away like a bat.

Then she looked down at the tiny glass vial on a silver chain that he'd left in her hand. A note was wrapped around it, which she unfolded and read hastily.

Christine, this is a more powerful form of chloroform for anyone you may need to use it on. Do not open it- the vapors will be more than enough to put you under the influence. Take care.

Yours (and very much in love),

Erik.

Christine smiled and draped the necklace about her neck, tucking the vial below her neckline and out of sight. Even in these dangerous times, he has not lost his humor. Dearest Erik, be safe…for my sake and yours.

…

Ciara pulled away, removing her ear from the locked door. The exchange she had witnessed had been quite touching, even when she did not know what it meant to be the recipient and reciprocator of such affections. She is going to stop Philippe from…whatever it is he might be doing.

She knew she should stop her captive from destroying Philippe from the inside out, but oddly, she did not want to. She wanted to know what he did behind her back as well. I cannot love him if I do not trust him. That is what Christine Daae told me; she was not lying. Yes, she would investigate as well. Perhaps a deal might be struck: information for speaking lessons.

It does not seem right or fair- she decided to teach me of her own free will, so I must also help her of my own free will. I only hope she will not use me as Philippe seems to use me. Yet he said he does it for me… This left her ever more perplexed, but with a clear goal: to know her childhood friend's deeds.

Steps sounded soft thuds on the carpet. Philippe. She strode towards him. He had just come home from the city, as his cloak still fluttered about his moving legs, and his scent was rather faint with the cold. He greeted her with a grasp of her arm, stopping her in her tracks. "Ciara, you've changed…" That was about the only way he could describe her outfit. He removed his hat and cloak, holding them in his free hand. "…But you do look quite nice."

Ciara cursed her cheeks as they burned. She could not see the blush, but he could, and quite clearly- she had oft been told that her complexion made it appear as if her blush covered her entire face. Then she grasped his hand and nodded. His pulse had quickened, and she wondered if it was because of her. She could almost taste the sweet smell he gave off, and let him pull her just inches closer.

The dress Christine had picked for her (out of the room's large and expensive wardrobe) had been the right length for her, but it was too loose for her thin frame, so one strap drooped from her shoulder and she felt distinctly overdone. So, instead of pulling him downstairs or into her quarters for a conversation, she shook her head vehemently and bowed her head, effectively hiding her flushed face.

"Come now, I believe you look quite fetching," he teased, setting his hat atop her head, "but please avoid going out in something like that. You'll freeze!" He chuckled and wrapped her in his cloak. The house was not very well insulated. She must have been quite cold, but he was instead thinking of preserving her modesty. The dress had practically no sleeves, and she was without a shawl to cover her bare, smooth skin, hence his lending of the heavy cloak.

He studied her for a moment, and lifted her chin so he could see her eyes. She literally cannot see how beautiful she is. With her face red as it was, and her hair slightly mussed under his hat, she was quite the beauty, especially now that she was not training or doing some other rough activity like horseback riding. I wonder, if she beds someone, does he make her feel beautiful, if she cannot see it for herself? He was quite sure she could feel and hear his heart racing through his fingertips. Let her feel it. She knows what a man feels for someone like her.

He took her hand. "I can see the shadows under your eyes, now. Get some rest." He guided her towards her room down the hall, though he knew she was in need of no assistance. Yes, she could find her way around his own house better than he in the dark. A scene appeared in his mind as he contemplated the moonlight streaming in through the windows. He would be holding both her hands, standing with her on a moonlit night such as the current one. He would press his forehead to hers and simply breathe her in and enjoy her presence in the silence… Calm yourself. There will be time for that when you have completed M. Erik's humiliation.

The hallway was much too short for his liking, and so was the amount of time it took her to slip away from him and back into her room. She paused, facing him so that he knew she was reluctant to succumb to the call of sleep. He resisted her somewhat plaintive look. "Sleep well. Pleasant dreams…" He waited until he heard the sound of running water to traverse to his own apartments. Pleasant dreams indeed, for I dream of you.