A/N: Thank you for the reviews and support! :-)
Chapter LXXX
.
The week passed with barely a murmur to disturb the peace. Safe again, within their concealed world of rock and water, Erik and Christine slipped once more into life as they knew it, with Erik training Christine to excel in voice and the theatrical, and their private moments spent wrapped within a cocoon of mutual pleasure…
Though throughout the first days and nights of the week, Christine ruefully wondered and Erik dourly muttered that if the Fates had their way, they would never get another night alone together.
It began on the evening they broke the news of Jolene's death to Jacques. Christine abruptly woke to find that while she had nestled to Erik's back in slumber, Jacques had slipped in beneath the sheets and lay sleeping, nestled to hers. She was thankful she'd left on her chemise after earlier tending nature's call and did not have to deal with the embarrassment of a week ago, when the boy caught her nude, with only a sheet for covering – and how Erik again slept.
Not wishing to disturb either of her men, Christine settled back into slumber – coming awake at Erik's confused grumbling of "What in blazes…?" after he had turned with eyes closed and slipped his arm around her, to gather her to him - his hand meeting the boy's backside.
"Never mind," she whispered. "It's alright."
She gently kissed her Phantom, sensing his frustration as he scrambled to grab his sleeping mask. Once he pulled it over his face, he drifted back into sleep with her at her soft reassurances, however evident his desire for a different fulfillment.
The second night, they both woke after reaching for one another in sleep, to find Jacques had shimmied beneath the covers, inhabiting the small gap between them. The boy scrunched his eyes tightly closed, clearly not asleep but wishing them to believe it so. Erik frowned down at the lad then lifted his eyes to Christine, their golden orbs serious in the glow coming from the sole candle lit beyond the open bed curtain. He had donned his silk mask before sleeping, as a precaution due to the close call of Jacques seeing his face the night before.
"This cannot continue," he declared, and Christine nodded her agreement, yet before he could move to carry the boy to his bedchamber, she put her hand on Erik's arm to stop him.
"It's late. Give him this one night yet. Tomorrow, talk to him."
Erik considered her words and offered a short, reluctant nod.
Feeling wide awake and knowing the boy couldn't hear any discussion they would have, Christine approached the problem in an attempt to find a solution.
"I was in Jolene's room yesterday and noticed a piece of stuffing stitched with cloth that resembled a horse. Perhaps if we gave that to Jacques when he lies down to sleep, it will be a comfort to him, and he won't be so afraid."
"I recall the cloth animal of which you speak – a knickknack Jolene stitched when she attempted to learn the skill – but why should a substandard piece of canvas and wool batting make a difference?"
"When you were his age, did you not have a special toy that made you feel safe?" Realizing who she asked and remembering his tragic childhood, she tried to retract her words. "I'm sorry, Erik. I wasn't thinking."
He appeared not to notice her gaffe, his mind caught up in another time.
"At one of the locales, where the gypsy camp settled," he mused darkly, "long after the usual gawkers visited the tent to observe me in the cage where I was kept, I spotted a cloth monkey on the ground outside the bars – likely dropped by a child who had no knowledge of the loss at the time. I reached through the bars and managed to grab hold of the monkey. I kept it well hidden, buried beneath straw so my handler wouldn't see, and took it out to play with when I was sure I was alone. Of course, it was only a matter of time before he caught me with it and demanded to know how it came to be in my cage. Yet after stomping it with his boot, which caused little damage, except for a tiny cymbal lost from its paw, and a rather unextraordinary beating compared to the usual given me, he did nothing. Gypsies that roam the land make a habit of stealing from the unwary, escaping from town to town in their nomadic ways. Since no one came forward to collect the toy, in an uncharacteristic act of kindness, apathetic though it was, my handler allowed me to keep the stuffed creature. I wouldn't say it made me feel safe, when every day lived was in direct opposition to anything as remote as safety, but there was a measure of…contentment when I held it."
Christine viciously blinked away tears that stung her eyes and turned her face aside, knowing he would not appreciate what he would see as pity. Frowning, he captured and cupped her jaw, brushing an errant tear that trickled near her lips with his thumb, but said nothing.
"The monkey on the music box you made for Jacques – is it the same?" she asked softly.
"No, in my hurry to flee the camp, I left the toy behind. But I did fashion the one atop the music box from memory."
Swallowing hard to quench another onslaught of tears, she nodded. "It's not just children who feel contentment to keep with them what is precious. When I thought you were dead, I kept your mask with me night and day, tucked in my corset and beneath my pillow – the last thing to touch you and what was important to you. It made me feel close to you." She had told him all of it before, but brought it up again to give more credibility to her plan.
His eyes had gentled to a golden glow. "I'm frankly surprised they gave it to you, much less let you keep it."
"Henri did so out of pure spite. As for keeping it, I was told they had no choice."
"You were told?"
Aware of her slip and not yet ready to speak of the year that remained undisclosed between them, she shook her head. "I was quite ill."
She could sense his puzzlement in the struggle to connect events in his mind and quickly changed the subject back to the boy.
"I feel it is also important we give Jacques time to accustom himself to others' company – company like Meg." She added the last when he withdrew his hand from her face, dissatisfied with her suggestion. "He needs to spend time above in a manner we can control."
"I have told you," he snapped. "It's dangerous."
"Meg would never harm him, she's proven that, don't you think? Nor would Madame Giry. I've known her a short time, but I sense she's a woman who truly cares about others."
"Two women slight of stature and untrained in weaponry can hardly stand up against a mob of narrow-minded peasants. With his uncle's goons about, Jacques is in even more danger."
"I'm not suggesting that Jacques step one foot outside the opera house - at least, not yet. There are a multitude of areas within that winding maze of a theatre where a boy could play under supervision."
"He's fine here."
His tone made clear the matter was settled, but she could be just as stubborn.
"No, he's not fine –aside from the fact that he will need to leave Paris when we do, and should learn to be in company aside from our own, something he hasn't done in three years, it isn't good for a growing boy to live underground and never see the sunlight. Think how you and I enjoyed roaming the moors. Would you wish to have spent those days forced to remain inside without even a ray from the sun to warm you? No, you wouldn't," she answered her own question, "and neither should Jacques have to live like a mole. With his sister gone, he certainly doesn't need to withdraw further into the darkness of these caverns. I thought I might ask Meg to take him to the rooftop and let him roam up there. Under her watchful eye of course..."
Her words about darkness and the boy's lack of sun made him wince.
"I can take him to the rooftop," he countered.
"Yes, but Meg will need to watch the lad while you take me to market," she introduced the next topic in dire need of discussion. "We are down to our last turnip. With Jolene gone, I shall need to take over the task of acquiring food, and we certainly cannot leave Jacques down here alone then. Unless you prefer to stay with him. I can probably manage to find the market on my own."
"You are not going into the city alone – I will take you. But now I am curious," he twisted the discussion to gain answers to questions never asked. "Have you ever been to market before?"
"I accompanied Berta on occasion and observed her closely enough to understand the skill of haggling with merchants for the best price. And yes, I did so once or twice myself."
He shook his head in confusion. "You adopted the role of servant on your return to The Heights and became a scullery maid from the looks of it." He took her hand and ran his thumb along the hardened calluses inside her palm as he had done once before. This time did not seem like an intrusion, though it was still difficult to answer his question of "Why?"
She squirmed beneath his watchful eye, recalling their fight and his admission that he sent someone to spy on her and report back to him. Apparently the man he contracted was not so vigilant to uncover the entire truth.
"When I returned from The Grange, it was to find The Heights in grave disrepair. With Henri's frequent drinking and gambling causing chaos and all but two of the servants gone, the place was in danger of tumbling down around my ears. I had no choice but to tie on an apron and take charge of things. Henri's wife was abed and ill. She died in childbirth. I was there. I helped deliver her son. He lived."
His brow lifted in shock at her choppy words. She shook her head, wishing to dislodge the feeling of helplessness the memory of that night evoked.
His answering silence unnerved her, and she looked up at him. "What are you thinking?"
"I only wonder why, after all the de Chagnys were to you," he said the last somewhat snidely, "the boy did not offer even a shilling of financial aid."
"I did not ask and couldn't allow it when Raoul did offer to help," she stressed, "not after…"
She hesitated too long.
"After?" he prodded softly, his eyes a demand.
"He proposed."
Erik scowled. "Then you were engaged."
"No, I was not. And stop looking at me like that! Your man and all the village snoops got the facts entirely wrong. Perhaps we were seen or heard on the balcony that night, I don't know – you're not the first to believe there was more than friendship between us. I refused his offer of marriage and returned to The Heights the following morning." She would prefer not to say the rest but didn't want the words rushing out in anger in the future, as she had a nasty habit of doing and was trying so hard to suppress. "I admit, I half convinced myself I could accept his offer. I felt I needed to go on with my life but … that kiss was the only one we shared."
She said the last softly, noting the hardening of his jaw. He pulled his hand from hers, but she reclaimed it and held tightly.
"It was in that one intimacy I knew anything more than friendship between Raoul and I could never exist. You owned my heart and my soul. I have always loved you, and I told him so."
His eyes softly lit up at her gentle proclamation though the frown remained. "Yet you stayed in his home for two years. Two years, Christine…"
She was both grateful his spy was clearly deficient in his profession and distressed for the same reason, wishing Erik had been told so she need never say the words. But the time was opportune and she must tell him. She wanted no more secrets between them.
"Arabella was there too, as you always seem to forget." She paused, biting her lip. "But, there is something about those days I should tell you, something that did happen…"
The boy moaned in his sleep, capturing their attention, then cried out in stark fear and abruptly came awake. Seeing where he was, he grabbed Christine around the middle and softly cried into the sheet covering her stomach.
Dismayed to see his anguish, Christine held him, smoothing and kissing his hair in comfort. She also wished to see Jacques well protected, but this life of hiding away in underground caverns wasn't good for one so young, wasn't good for any of them. Once they were far from Paris, while in their company, Jacques would be safe. But until and unless he had some experience above with others, their escape to another country to start a new life could prove difficult indeed.
Her eyes lifted to Erik's in plea. "One day. As long as it takes to make a trip to market and back. Give it this one day to see how things go."
"Put my brother at risk for a test?"
"I care about him too and would never suggest something I felt was dangerous. We'll take it slowly. In that labyrinth of rooms above, he can easily hide while experiencing a taste of freedom among others. Will you not give him the chance?"
He sighed. "This is all moot. I doubt Madame Giry would agree to lose one of her dancers for even a day."
"Meg seemed to think she would agree. We'll never know unless we ask."
"You spoke to her about this before talking with me?"
His tone darkened and she frowned. "Don't be like that. Actually, she made the offer to watch him, and I agreed it would be a grand idea if her mother approved. And you, of course. She seemed to think Madame would allow it."
xXx
As it turned out, Madame Giry not only agreed, she gave permission for Meg to be absent for both the morning and afternoon practice, with the stipulation that she work extra hard to make up for her absence.
Erik was clearly dissatisfied but resigned to give Christine's plan a chance. Jacques, on the other hand, was less than cooperative. Once told of his imminent visit above, the boy raced from the chamber. When Erik caught up to him and grabbed him, Jacques struggled in his arms to flee. Seeing his tearful panic, Christine was ready to surrender her plan but much to her surprise, Erik grew determined.
"You were right. If he responds like this now," Erik explained, grunting as he held a wriggling Jacques, "we will never leave Paris unscathed. He must warm to the idea of going above. Unfortunately, with Jolene's death, the world has become even more of a place to fear for him."
Eventually they won the lad over with the promise that he could take his soldiers with him, and Christine's lure of the marionettes Meg would show him, telling him of dolls he could control with strings. She felt she got the message across, using a ribbon to tie to one of the soldiers and dangling it as a puppet, then pointing above, producing a faint smile from his lips. The marionettes were a long-forgotten prop Christine had run across in a storage room, and something Christine was sure Jacques would also love. She remembered during a trip to town for supplies, in the year before Papa died, watching a puppet show with Erik and how they both delighted in the silly carved figurines dangling by their crossbars.
With Jacques tightly gripping Erik's glove with both hands and Christine on the other side of the boy, they took the winding tunnels to the opera house. Once they stepped through the dressing room mirror, a feat Jacques watched in wide-eyed wonder, Meg stepped forward to greet him with a welcoming smile, her eyes also showing awe, though Erik had taken her through the hidden exit once before. They waited a few minutes, until it was apparent that Jacques had grown comfortable in the company of Meg. He withdrew the soldier with the ribbon from the canvas bag he'd gathered them into and wore slung across his chest, handing the toy to Meg.
"He wants to see the marionettes," Christine explained.
"Oh, so you told him about those?" Meg directed a smile to the boy. "Of course we can. You may play with them to your heart's content." She looked up at Erik. "I'll take good care of him."
Erik brusquely nodded. "At the first sign of trouble, take him back through this mirror into hiding, but do NOT wander further into the tunnels, even if you think you remember the way to the lair. Wait for our return."
"I will."
Erik looked at the boy, who was winding the black ribbon around the demon doll's throat, then turned his attention to Christine.
"Shall we go?"
Jacques looked up as they moved to the mirror door, sudden dread filling his blue eyes.
"We will be back for you soon," Erik said slowly. "I swear it."
The boy stared at him in worry. Meg wrapped an arm around his back, hugging him to her side, and the fear slowly ebbed from his eyes.
"I'll bring you something special back from the market," Christine promised as Erik took her hand and was gratified to see the boy understood her words by his hopeful smile.
They traversed secret passageways leading to the stables and waited until the area was clear. Once Cesar was saddled and they were safely lost within the dense forest, Christine settled back against Erik and finally took her first relaxed breaths.
xXx
The Phantom slipped along the fringes of the market, keeping to the shadows and Christine within his sight at all times.
With curious admiration he observed her as she wandered from stand to stand, surveying produce and haggling for the best price. She appeared to know what she was doing and held her own with the most stubborn of merchants.
He chuckled to see her bluff in refusing when a crusty old codger, realizing he'd lost her interest, called her back to his vegetable stand after she slowly began to walk away, and concede to her last offered price.
Even from this distance he noticed her sly smile and nodded to himself with one of his own, her ability at market negotiations coming as no surprise.
Since she was a child, Christine knew how to get whatever she wanted and especially with him. He'd been a fool to think his plan of vengeance would work for that reason alone, but his prevalent love for her made allowances for that grasping part of her nature. It would serve her well in her rise to stardom, for he was assured she would never surrender their shared dreams, now that they were well within reach of being obtained.
From the corner of his eye a familiar figure caught his attention. Instantly alert, the Phantom turned from watching Christine stuff newly procured squash into a net bag. He frowned when he saw he was correct and slipped through the cracks of the market to corner his prey.
x
"Aaacck!" The slippery weasel of a man jumped back when the Phantom abruptly swept into his path as he neared an alley. Roughly grabbing his arm, the Phantom forced him deeper into the shadowed area, shifting them around and standing at an angle so he could keep Christine within his sight.
"Oh - it's you." The man dabbed his brow with a soiled kerchief.
The Phantom scowled. "Good of you to remember, Alric. Did you forget the appointed time to meet two months ago? I find that difficult to believe, since you sent the note."
"I – I meant to be there, but the gendarmes – they took me."
"Took you?" the Phantom repeated caustically.
"A duel, over a woman. They put me in chains in prison. I was there for weeks. It is a miracle I survived."
Folding his arms across his chest, the Phantom regarded his excuse for a spy with narrow-eyed suspicion.
"I tell the truth – I swear it. The man I dueled with was the mayor's son. I didn't know this at the time."
"You have failed me once too often," the Phantom replied coldly. "You gave false information with regard to Miss Daaé, leading me to believe she was engaged."
"It's what those in Haworth said, those I spoke to. The noble who attended the Vicomte's party was certain. He caught him leaving her bedchamber and heard the Vicomte tell another of his intentions to wed her. I overheard the gent say it."
The Phantom scowled at such news, though he'd heard it before. "You call yourself a detective, but seem unable to separate fact from fiction that is fed by idle gossip!"
"If I led you astray, it-it wasn't my intention." He backed up a step, seeing the fury twist the Phantom's face beneath the black mask. "I swear the news I bring this time is fact. I swear it on my mother's grave!"
"And I should believe you – why…? You proved yourself to be a liar and a thief on board ship. Now you've shown to play the fool, not in dueling with the mayor's son but in getting caught in blood sport that has been outlawed for centuries. I vow, if you are lying to me now..." The Phantom reached out and grabbed him by the collar.
"We did not fight with weapons - only fists - and I have a document that proves the new information I uncovered is true!" Alric blurted. "Not on me…" He patted the sides of his moth-eaten coat, and the Phantom absently wondered with all that he paid this imbecile, why he chose not to procure better clothing. "I left it in my room, where I board." Sweat popped out in small beads on his forehead. "A short walk from here."
The Phantom compressed his lips, squeezing the cloth in tight fists before harshly releasing him with disgust. "Get it," he ordered softly. "I suggest you run. If you do not return within ten minutes or you think to escape me, I will hunt you down, and you will not like that. Prison will seem a fairytale, for what I will do to you."
Motionless, the Phantom watched Alric scamper away like a frightened rat. The wily little man had helped uncover information about his mother, it was true, but since he made his home in Paris the fool had grown lax in his judgment and lavish in his indulgences. The Phantom would look at what he had to show him, pay him if he thought such news worthy, then never have dealings with the incompetent again. With Christine by his side, where she belonged, he no longer had need to.
He watched as she endeavored to snatch her woolen scarf from where it had fallen against her shoulders and replace it over her lustrous dark curls. In the sunlight, copper and ruby glints danced along the waist-length ringlets, a striking frame to the flawless cream canvas of her skin, and he noticed several turn to give a second glance. The women with envy, the men with interest.
The Phantom curtailed the immediate urge to intervene with threats, since the fools did nothing more than ogle his bride, and she appeared not to notice the attention. Let them look. At the theatre, on stage and off, it was no different. Her name would soon be known worldwide by all who craved a night at the opera. He must accustom himself to such things as open admiration from the masses for his beloved.
She belonged to him, always she would, and together they shared in the experience of living their long-held dreams...
No news from England could destroy that.
xXx
Christine picked through a basket of oranges, wishing to bring Jacques a promised treat. Once selected, she handed over the coin, shaking the small drawstring purse around her neck and seeing she was running low. She wandered over to a crude stand that held strings of sausages and heads of cabbage. She craved a steak and kidney pie, one of Erik's favorites, and had seen Berta make hundreds. Surely, since she mastered the roast goose, Christine could manage a simple meat pastry.
Thinking of her husband, she smiled, feeling his watchful eyes on her the entire time she perused the crowded marketplace, with stall upon stall of colorful produce in long rows, some containing meats or spices or other foodstuffs. Several merchants sold from their wagons, but most conducted their business from small wooden booths covered by cloth awning to protect the food from direct sunlight. On occasion, she glanced into the distance, certain she saw the swish of Erik's black cloak in the shadows. His fixed attention might seem obsessive, even intrusive to anyone else, but especially amid the multitude of brusque buyers and persistent sellers, her husband's presence made Christine feel well protected and cared for.
She looked behind, this time catching full sight of him, and froze in anxious puzzlement to see Erik conversing with a man in the alley. At first she feared that one of Monsieur Picard's despicable soldiers had found Erik, but this man was no soldier. Standing a head shorter than her husband, the stranger looked foreign, with black hair and swarthy skin, and wore a plum-colored frock coat. She could hardly conceive that her Phantom – who clung to solitude and shadows – was having an intense discussion with this man.
"Mademoiselle, you intend to pay for the sausages?" the merchant called suspiciously from behind.
Christine turned. In her shock to see her reclusive Phantom with another living soul, she had taken a few steps away from the stall, a link of sausages in hand. By the hard look in the merchant's eyes he didn't trust her not to run with them.
"How much?"
He quoted an unreasonable price that normally she would have haggled down by half, but swiftly she dug into the pouch Erik gave her and produced the coins, placing them in the seller's outstretched palm.
Sausages procured, she moved away, again looking toward the narrow gap between buildings. Neither Erik nor the stranger stood anywhere in sight.
Her distress to have lost him was tempered by the fact that she knew he had not lost her. Even now he was probably watching her looking for him.
Reassured, she moved in the direction of the butcher's shop she spotted earlier, for the beef and kidneys. They needed eggs as well, but she couldn't imagine returning to the lair without all of them breaking and wondered how the task had been accomplished. Perhaps she should ask Erik to purchase a hen and make a coop outside the entrance to the cave. It would be a lengthy walk through the caverns to collect eggs every morning, but she doubted a hen could lay eggs well beneath ground, absent of fresh air and sunshine, if it could lay there at all.
Perhaps, instead, a basket lined with thick padding would prove adequate to place eggs from the market. She wondered if there were any basket sellers nearby...
A strong grip on her arm startled her and she spun around to look.
"Erik!" she said in surprise, stunned that he had come out of hiding, relieved it was not a stranger who grabbed her, a shade angry that he would frighten her so. But worry smothered all of it, that someone might see and recognize him and prison would be his fate yet.
"What are you doing here? I'm nearly finished."
"We must go - now."
His order was soft but curt, the fedora pulled low over his brow. She couldn't clearly read the expression in his eyes, but she sensed them burn.
Fearful for his continued safety, she did nothing as he pulled her away from the marketplace and toward the trees where he had tied Cesar.
"Erik, what has happened?"
He looked beyond her then snatched the net bag from her hand, securing it to the saddle.
"Not now, Christine. We will speak upon our return."
Surely his volatile mood must have something to do with the stranger in the alley. She yearned to know what had made him like this, but perhaps it was best for Erik to calm down before she asked more questions. She was accustomed to his temperament and had learned to manage his furies, somewhat, but had no desire to poke a growling lion.
Her hold on patience narrowed during the ride back as she held to his rigid form. Thankfully no one occupied the stables, and they slipped through the wall undetected, but patience honed to a thin fiber upon their arrival to the caverns and his refusal to answer her question of why he was so upset, if silence could be considered a refusal. The fiber frayed more with each minute that passed then snapped the moment they stepped into the lake room, where muted sunlight gilded the dark water.
"Erik," she said as he preceded her into their bedchamber. "Erik – wait!"
He finally stopped but did not turn to acknowledge her.
The room was much too dark to see well, and she hastened to light four tapers with the sole candle flickering by the wall. Task accomplished, she again turned to question her obdurate husband. He had not moved an inch, his back still toward her.
"Erik – tell me what is wrong. Please…"
Slowly he turned to face her and dropped the net bag of produce to the ground. For a moment he said or did nothing, and Christine clenched her hands in her skirts at his continued silence.
"After all that has gone between us, can you not trust me?" she pleaded. "Why are you behaving like this?"
"Trust?" he parroted quietly, caustically. Putting his hand inside his cloak he withdrew a scroll of paper. "Trust…"
Christine swallowed hard over the sudden tightness in her throat. Dread sated her bones to see that white roll of parchment against his black glove, and suddenly she wished to steal back the minutes and return to that morning. She had no idea what was about to transpire, but sensed she would regret pushing him to reveal it.
"What is that?" she whispered.
"An interesting tidbit I ran across," he replied casually, his words rife with sarcasm.
"By the tone of your voice you don't think I'm entitled to know." Five minutes ago she would have held him down to receive an answer. Now she wished only to forget the whole thing. "Fine. Never mind then."
She would have walked away, but his chafing laugh stopped her.
"Oh no, my dear. You of all people should know what this contains. After all, you begged to know the reason. Here." He held the scroll out to her. "Look."
She stared as if it were offered poison before taking the scroll from his hand. With trembling hands she unfurled it.
"Oh God…"
Lightheaded, she swayed on her feet. He grabbed her arm to keep her upright.
"Is there something you wish to tell me, my love?"
"I…" She inhaled a deep breath as she stared at a penned image of her face and beneath that, her name, along with the notice of a reward of 100 pounds for her capture.
"Where did you get this?" She willed her voice to remain steady. "From that man I saw you with today? In the alley?"
"Oh no, my sweet. It is I who will be asking the questions." He snatched the paper from her limp hands and scanned it. "A poor likeness. I could have done better." His golden eyes turned up to her anxious ones, searing her mind with their demand. "Now tell me, what is the reason for its existence?"
Weary of all of it, she dearly wished she had made it a priority to tell him before now, but as much as she wanted to she could not turn back the hands of time. Still feeling shaky, almost queasy, she walked woodenly to the bed and sank hard to the coverlet. Cradling her hands limply in her lap, palms up, she stared at her curled fingers.
He did not prod her to speak, and she searched for what to say. When she finally did find words, they were not ones she had thought she would ask.
"Do the nightmares ever go away?"
The silence came, prolonged and unnerving. After a moment she looked up. Erik regarded her with wary confusion, his arms crossed over his chest.
"After you murdered your victims," she explained tonelessly. "Your first victim, really. Did the knowledge of what you'd done grow easier with time?"
"We are not talking about me."
"I wish to know."
"Why? Why bring up matters best left forgotten?"
"I need to know. To know if the nightmares will pass or if this is what I must live with for the rest of my life. Regrettably, the nightmares don't just occur when I sleep, though I once found a way to avoid them, to avoid everything really…" The last came out in a whisper.
He unfolded his arms and guardedly moved her way.
"Christine…?"
"Yes, Erik, we have something else in common. I killed a man. We are both wanted for murder."
He inhaled harshly through his teeth and stopped before her. She did not lift her eyes from his shirt.
"It was Henri," she blurted, the trapped words pouring forth now that the dam had broken. "I didn't intend to kill him, only stop him. When I left The Heights, he was breathing. I know he was. But I must have hit him harder with the tea kettle than I thought."
"Christine, why did you not tell me this before?" His words came soft and low, absent of the previous rancor.
"When you first brought me here, as the Phantom, well, of course I didn't tell you then. I didn't trust you, and you can hardly blame me for that. Later, after I discovered who you were – you said it yourself. The need for us to take things slowly, to let the truth of past years come out gradually…"
"Gradually, yes. But it has been weeks. You've had more than enough opportunity."
"So have you," she countered, unnerved by the hint of anger again lacing his tone. "You once told me you were an assassin, but never told me how it started. Or why you stopped. Though I asked. You never told me much of anything about those days, and what you did say at the hotel that night made little sense."
"You wish to relive my year in Persia?"
"I wish to understand it."
"It is a matter that should remain dead and buried."
"No more secrets, Erik." She looked at him hopefully. "We promised each other. Only truth."
He stared at her a long moment, then sighed and sat down beside her.
"Very well, if you're sure truth is what you want."
"I am."
He nodded vaguely, but it was a moment before he began.
"I told you they first took me as prisoner, believing I killed a man. That man was the same who tended my wounds and brought me to Persia, but I did not kill him. He died in the night, shortly after we arrived. I assume the journey was too much for him. After the Shah promoted me from despised prisoner to exalted guest, he took an interest in my skills. You know the worst. That I killed those whom the Shah deemed unworthy of life, and they were great in number. You asked once if I was forced into working for him. Force isn't the term I would use. Heavily persuaded is more apt. First with gifts, once I was no longer treated as a hostile prisoner but as a feared guest. When that failed to entice me, veiled threats followed, mainly from the Shah's mother, the Khanum. Even then I was not intimidated, though with as powerful as the Shah had proven to be I should have been more vigilant. I was angry and bitter with all of what happened in Haworth. I, alone, made the decision to become an assassin."
There was a hesitance in his voice, but no blame, and it gave Christine the courage to reach out and cover his hand with hers.
"Papa once said, there isn't a soul on this earth who hasn't made a decision they wish they could retract," she assured softly. "His was to rely on his brother for help and become indebted to him for a lifetime."
Erik said nothing.
"What made you quit?"
For a long moment he stared at their hands held on his knee. His golden eyes behind the mask were troubled, and Christine tensed in preparation of what would come.
"That last day in Persia was a day like all the rest. Those members of rank in the Shah's favor were commanded to attend yet another execution, aided by one of many torture chambers I constructed. The latest betrayer had cheated the Shah from a more grisly death by suicide, using his sash as a noose. So the Shah took his family as a substitute. His wife and two daughters."
Christine felt a chill race along her spine. She wasn't sure she wished to hear the rest, but needed to know.
"What happened?" she asked softly when he grew still.
Beneath her palm she felt his fingers dig into his thigh.
"Erik…?"
"I saw you."
She slightly recoiled though she kept her hand against his. He looked at her and nodded.
"Yes, you heard correctly. I saw you."
"But how?"
"An illusion of the mind. The woman and her daughters walked between guards escorting them to their death. As they came alongside where I was seated, the youngest turned her head and looked fully at me. There was no anger, no hatred, only a plea I could never fulfill. As I looked, suddenly her features, her hair, all of it changed – and it was you standing there. Your face. Your dark eyes looking back at me, so sad and helpless, silently begging me to intervene..."
Emotion clouded his voice. "To leave was considered an insult, but I could not stay. I knew my time there had come to a close, that I must vacate Persia before I, too, became one of the Shah's victims. And I came to another understanding. For as angry as I was with all that transpired in England, as bitter and betrayed, I could never truly hate you to want you harmed or dead. I fled, but their screams followed me through the corridors, and through it all I could only see your face."
Stunned by his revelations, Christine struggled to absorb all he told her.
"You left Persia that day?" she asked when she could again speak.
He nodded shortly. "The taste for murder had long grown bitter. I never wanted to continue being that monster, but felt I must in order to survive. Once I fled the country with the help of the Daroga, the commander of police there, my ethics changed. From that day forth, I never intended to take another life, but to protect those I care about I will kill with my bare hands if I must."
She nodded, looking at their hands as she squeezed his. Strong hands, yet gentle, they had fulfilled his vow.
"Now you know of Persia …" With his free hand he took gentle hold of her chin and turned her face toward him. "Tell me what happened in England."
His eyes held no condemnation, but their golden depths commanded, and she was so very weary of all the subterfuge.
"Once I left The Grange and returned to The Heights, I found Henri's wife to be very ill. We formed a friendship. I spent what little free time I had reading to her, and she spoke to me about her life in London and her father who once worked for Scotland Yard. It seems Henri and her father visited the same places of ill repute and were gambling cohorts. After Elizabeth died giving birth to a son, Henri's behavior grew more beastly, if that's even possible. He spent almost every waking hour drunk, but thankfully went away often, usually for weeks at a time."
She pulled her hand from his and clasped them on her lap, looking at them.
"The boy filled much of my time – babies are wonderful but needy – and my days were busy with keeping The Heights going and helping Berta tend to little Henley. I had promised Elizabeth I would care for him as my own. I barely had a moment to myself, and when one such moment came, I took advantage of it to bathe. My plans were to bathe, that is…"
She didn't realize she was twisting her fingers so tightly until Erik's hand covered hers. She looked with surprise at the pink crescents where her nails had dug into her skin.
"It's alright, Christine. Nothing can hurt you here. He's gone."
"That's what I thought – then. He was gone, for over a week, and I was sure I was safe. But he walked through the back door, into the kitchen, and he – he…" She shook her head rapidly.
"Would that I had been there," Erik harshly muttered.
"He said I owed him and tried to take what was not his to have. I struck him. Hard. But I didn't think I struck him hard enough to kill him…" Christine cleared her throat, trying to dislodge the ache, yet finding some odd sort of peace to finally speak of it. "I fled to The Grange. Raoul investigated and found Henri dead, found the police there too. Someone arriving to The Heights – a friend of Henri's – saw me ride away and Joseph said he overheard me threaten Henri before. Because of who Elizabeth's father was, I sensed he would not stop until I was apprehended. That night, Raoul, Arabella and I conceived a plan for me to escape England. Your letter gave us the destination needed. I came to Paris, to hide." She laughed without humor. "Funny how your plan of vengeance gave me just that, safety from being caught, though I was far from appreciating the irony at the time."
"It is why you wished to take the stage name of Grendhal," he said, his eyes narrowing as he assimilated the scattered pieces into a logical puzzle.
"And why I left for the hotel and remained there so long, away from you. Raoul didn't want to draw attention to me by having the gendarmes question me about Buquet's death."
He scowled. "And I forced you onstage, in the limelight, to be ogled by hundreds of Parisians."
He shot to his feet in agitation, took a few steps forward, then came to a sudden stop.
"You did not force me, Erik – I chose it."
"Heavily persuaded by threats of an eternity lived in darkness," he said acerbically.
Christine jumped in shock as he ripped the mask from his head and whirled to face her.
"This face does not lie - I truly am no more than a monster! You fear for your very life and I aid and abet those who would set out to cage you, or worse, kill you, for an act of deserved justice that was no crime. I have put you in mortal danger to appease a foolish desire to hear you sing my opera onstage and ... why are you smiling?"
"Am I?" She put her fingertips to her lips, finding them curved. Noting the fury had seeped from his eyes to be replaced by utter bewilderment, she rose from the bed and approached. Pressing her hand lightly against the twisted part of his face, her heart rejoiced when he did not flinch. This, the first time he willingly removed his mask for her, and in full realization of what he'd done.
"I'm only comforted that you are with me and now know all of it, so I don't have to go through this alone. But Erik, my love, our dreams are no foolish desire."
He covered her hand with his, holding it trapped against his face. "I still don't understand all of what happened in England, but I would never wish you harm, Christine. I saved your life twice, when you knew me as the Phantom, and have always done what I could to protect you. I will continue to do what I must to ensure your safety."
"Three times."
"What?" The confusion returned to his expression.
"Once near your horrid pit of vipers, once from the infection, and again when you came back to life and restored my soul."
She pushed herself up on her toes and pressed her lips to his with tenderness. He wrapped his free arm around her back and brought her close, deepening the kiss a moment before letting go.
"This changes everything," he said quietly. "I shall inform Madame Giry that your understudy will perform indefinitely."
"Erik – no." She pulled back. "No one knows me in Paris. They think I'm Christine Grendhal from Sweden. That man I saw you with at the market - your spy?- must have brought that reward poster from England. Not Paris. It promised payment in pounds, not francs," she explained when he lifted his brow in question of how she would know.
"It is enough that Jacques' uncle has consigned his fiends to put me out of commission and twice threatened you. I will not again see you put in peril."
"Don't let this little setback steal our dreams, Erik."
"This 'little setback' is much greater than you imagine." He repeated her words as if he could not believe she'd said them so casually. "I cannot allow you to go on stage again. Not in Paris." He paced from wall to wall, then looked her way, noting her disappointment. "You will sing again, Christine, but not in France. As your manager, I've sent out letters inquiring on auditions for new operas. There has been no time for a response, but we shall accept the first one that arrives and leave Paris immediately afterward."
She nodded in resignation. Closing the distance between them, he clasped her shoulders.
"Is there anything more you wish to tell me?"
It would be easy to say no, to let him believe that her confession to murder was what she alluded to that morning, but it would not be truthful.
"There is more, but this entire day has been rather exhausting. I'll tell you, but not now. I just need to rest for awhile."
"Rest, then. I'll store away the provisions and go and collect Jacques."
He kissed her forehead. Before he could retreat, she pressed both palms to his cheeks and kissed him firmly on the lips, almost desperately.
"We have conquered much to be together," he whispered, reading the anxiety in her eyes, "against all odds or expectations. Be assured I'll not allow anyone to tear us asunder again. No demon from hell, no mortal on earth, and certainly nothing more you could tell me."
She nodded, allowing him to turn her so as to loosen her stays. Once she reclined on the mattress, Erik pulled the coverlet over her, and Christine took reassurance in the simple, comforting act.
She watched him blow out the nearby candles and exit the chamber, the air he stirred with the soft swish of his cloak almost blowing out the flame to the sole candle he'd left lit. She watched as it madly flickered, then again burned steady, though it seemed smaller than before, with darkness ever-present and waiting on the fringes to capture it.
Despite his insistence to keep her well hidden, she had the terrible premonition that everything was about to unravel and nothing would be the same again.
xXx
A/N: Thanks again for the interest, favorites, and reviews! :)