For a long time that morning, Christine lies in bed trying to settle the racing of her heart. There is nothing that she can think of to ease the twisting anxiety in her stomach. If she thinks of Papa, she gets a chill and a stab of pain. If she thinks of music, her thoughts turn to Monsieur Delacroix without a moment's hesitation and the churning in her stomach starts again, those sneering voices in her ears whispering to her that he will see her as the fraud she is, will order her removed from the company when he sees that this is all she is.
(Can he order someone removed from the company? She is not certain, but probably. He seems to have so much control over everything as it is.)
She draws a deep breath, and holds it for five seconds as she counts. Mamma always says it is best to hold a deep breath in order to calm one's nerves, but Christine is not trying to calm her nerves because she has no nerves. She is simply anxious.
The misty morning light catches the blue rosary beads, sitting on the locker beside her bed. They shine dully, reminding her that they are there, and she sighs, stretches one hand out and with a finger pulls them toward her until she can cup them in her palm. Mamma always says that when trying to calm oneself, it is best to turn to prayer. And the very thought of trying to eat breakfast makes bile rise burning in her throat. She has time for the Rosary. One Rosary, and then she will be ready.
She twines the beads between her fingers, and seeks out the first one.
In the name of the father, and of the son…
He takes great care in dressing himself. Normally, he wears a simple black mask for the rehearsals. It is not at all flamboyant, but it is sufficient. This morning, however, he chooses the black one with the delicate gold threads webbing through it. His burgundy waistcoat has matching gold threads, and he flatters himself that they bring out his one attractive feature of his eyes. He wears his best dress suit, and the black gloves that make his hands look particularly elegant.
Why he goes to such trouble he cannot say. He tells himself it is because he wishes to make a good impression on her, as if a good impression would ever be enough to keep her from wishing to see his face. But something tells him the true reason is more than that, and the knowledge of it flickers deep inside of him even as he tries to deny it. He simply wishes to put her at ease, that is all. Nothing more. And if putting her at ease means looking the best that he can, then so be it.
Farhad arches an eyebrow knowingly to see him when at last he emerges from his room. (Normally he would have been out much sooner, but this morning his tea has cooled on the table.)
"Very handsome, Erik," he says, lips twitching as if he is fighting a smile, but with the anxiety twisting deep in Erik's stomach he can only glower.
"Oh, shut up."
Afterwards, he is certain that he lets several minor errors slide over the course of the rehearsal. (All of the major errors he corrects, and if there is a sharper edge to his voice than normal, nobody in his orchestra comments on it.) Normally he would pick out each mistake, each misplaced note, and correct it on the spot, but the anxiety in his stomach and the voices in his head whispering that he has this one chance with Mademoiselle Daaé before everything falls apart, are such that he cannot truly concentrate on the music that is being played.
He dismisses the musicians, marginally earlier than usual, and slips off into one of the hidden corridors he installed years ago. As soon as he is safely tucked away from sight, he eases off his mask and wipes the sweat from his face, all too aware of the hard beating of his heart. It would be so easy to leave Daaé a note. He has already checked the availability of the dressing room and it is not, as he feared, a storage closet. He could write her a note, tell her that due to unforeseeable circumstances he will not be able to teach her, leave the note in the dressing room and slip a second note, claiming serious illness, in to the manager's office. Slip out of the theatre, and onto the next train, and hide in the country for a time. Wire Farhad to join him, tell him that it is truly unfeasible that he take the girl on as a student. Fake his death, perhaps—
But no. At the very thought of Farhad, the man's words come back to him. How he would be condemning the Daaé girl if he were to back out now. How it is absolutely necessary that he continue, and with a painful throb of his heart, he knows that he must. There is no going back now, only forwards. And he is the only reason he is in this mess to begin with. There is only himself to blame.
The rehearsal seems to drag on longer than usual. Though Christine is only in the chorus, and her voice is often drowned out by the combined efforts of the other girls, Monsieur Reyer both notices and corrects her when she fumbles several notes, her voice trembling at the thought of what Monsieur Delacroix will say when faced with her. Will he castigate her? Reprimand her? Order her out of the theatre? She has had all night and day to try to allay those fears but still they wend their way through her brain, disturbing every effort at singing properly, and if she cannot keep her anxiety under control now, how will she ever manage when faced with the man himself Delacroix? She'll stutter and squeak, she knows it!
She should have told Mamma about the lesson. Mamma would know what to say to settle her.
Mamma would get her hopes up that this means there is a starring role coming and when that doesn't happen, when Delacroix sees through her, Mamma would be crushed! No. It is best that she not know. It can be Christine's little disappointing secret.
When, at last, she escapes from rehearsal, it is only two minutes until she is supposed to meet with Delacroix in the abandoned dressing room! Two minutes? It will take her five minutes at least to get there! And that is only if she does not get lost! She's going to be late. Oh God she's going to be late.
It is that thought, that fear of being late, that spurs her on, and she races down the hall even as the other girls are saying their goodbyes. All thoughts, all anxieties, all worries are pushed out of her mind with the burning need to not be late. And she runs, her feet flying beneath her, carrying her on down one corridor and then the next, the sound of her running like thunder, and around a corner, her lungs gasping for breath but she cannot stop, cannot, must keep going, and down another corridor, around the corner, and there is the door.
It opens the moment she lays her hand to it, and she falls in through it. Her knees are too weak, legs trembling too much, to catch herself and as the floor comes up to meet her, a pair of strong hands wrap around her arms, but the momentum is too much, and she is falling too hard, and she barely has time to register the presence of hands before she is crashing down into a tangle of limbs.
The world whites out, and all she can hear is ragged gasping, the pounding of a heart beneath her ear. Whose heart? Her heart, surely, but how can her own heart be beneath her ear? It must be—must be someone else—
The realisation of who, exactly, is lying beneath her comes to her at the same moment her vision clears, and she finds a pair of wide golden eyes staring at her from behind a black mask.
"I'm sorry," she squeaks as she rolls off Monsieur Delacroix, but he does not speak, simply continues staring at her even as she scrambles to her feet.
"I—" he gasps, "I—" and he blinks slowly, swallowing.
Christine smooths the creases from her dress, nausea flickering in her stomach. Did she hurt him? Did he hit his head as he fell? Oh God this is really it. She knew something would happen. She knew it. He's going to have her thrown out and she'll have to go home to Mamma and tell her that she half-killed the conductor by falling down with him and— and—
Such is her state of panic, she does not see Monsieur Delacroix shake his head, and roll over, slowly pushing himself to his feet. He dusts off his dress suit, and lays one hand over his mask to check it, and the next she knows of him his hands are back on her arms, and he is looking at her, his voice soft with concern as he asks, "Are you all right?"
All right? Is she all right? Of course she's all right he broke her fall!
She does not say that, of course. Instead she asks, "Are you?"
His eyes are all of his face she can see, those burning golden eyes that she has heard so much about, and up this close she realises that they are not true gold but actually gold-hazel, and is it her imagination or does she imagination that there is a softness to them as he nods?
"Yes." His voice is still soft, and distantly she wonders if this is some sort of a trick, some way of fooling her into thinking all is well before he orders her out, but instead he pats her gently on the arm, and leans back, releasing her from his grip, and all she can do is gape at him, fumbling to think what to say as he asks, "Are you certain you are all right?"
And she nods, swallows to try and strengthen her voice before she says, any tremor held carefully at bay, "Yes. I am."
He nods, and clears his throat, smoothing his hands back over his dress suit. "Good. That—That's good. Well—I—if you are well, then perhaps we should start the lesson."
And with that simple statement, with that simplestatement Christine knows she is safe.
A/N: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this so far. I hope you have enjoyed this chapter and please do leave me a review letting me know what you think!
Up next: The aftermath of the lesson