A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews! :) ... And now …
Chapter XVIII
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Christine huddled in a corner of what was once the Phantom's lair – or rather, what would become his lair – and surveyed the thick shadows with a sense of lingering disbelief.
She had viewed this place as one of magnificence, a wealth of candlelight all around, items of shimmering gold and silk, silver and velvet scattered within its wide corners and shallow alcoves in careless abandon. An underground peninsula of beauty and mystery, made even more magical by its host and owner…
This horrid cold and dark tomb failed to resemble the underground palace he had fashioned, the formation of walls and the chill lake the only proof that this was indeed his lair…or would be.
In that moment, she deeply sympathized with the small boy who once escaped to such a dank and miserable habitation, for the first time realizing exactly how much he had altered these chambers to make it a home – and according to what he shared with Christine that long-ago night – he had done it all for her.
How badly she had treated him! Though she never set out to hurt him, never wanted that. Everything just happened so quickly and became so wretchedly confusing, with murder as a backdrop to the dreadful stage play she unwittingly had performed with both men.
She still could not fathom how all who knew him thought of him as Le Masque. Were that bandit's looks and her Phantom's truly so similar? And where had the true leader of the band disappeared to? Had he been captured by someone other than the Vicomte? Slain by an enemy hand? Or was he out there even now, plotting to attack Erik for seizing his identity?
None of it made sense, and she pondered the endless list of oddities that had become her life. After some time, it occurred to her that her new bridegroom had been absent for what seemed a small eternity, and she worried that some ill wind of fortune had indeed blown his way.
On the heels of that chilling thought, something rustled in the corner, not unlike a rasp of stiff material, and far from her safe circle of lamplight.
"Eri – Maestro?" She caught herself from blurting his true name at the last second.
The silence that met her query did nothing to reassure.
She let out an exasperated breath. "Get hold of yourself, Christine, it was likely a sudden breeze coming through the cracks above and blowing something about…" She remembered how the flames of the candles would abruptly waver, as if touched by a soft, brief wind. "Dreading the unknown is childish when you can just as easily get your duff up, off these stones, and put any fear to rest…"
She shook her head at her foolish and audible chastisement – a desperate move to make things seem normal, when they were so infinitely removed from the sane realm of the orthodox.
She pushed herself up to stand, her legs still a trifle shaky, and picked up the crude lantern. Holding it ahead of her, she moved slowly in the direction she'd heard the noise. From the glimpse she recalled of that nineteenth century portion of the Phantom's lair, the area she approached was used for storage of books and crates. Now, it should be no more than an empty, enclosed chamber, and she questioned her judgment to bother to investigate.
Still, the simple task occupied idle hands and a mind running rampant, and anything was better than sitting in one place and dwelling on frights of the unknown, which may well serve to slowly drive her mad...
Better to put at least one of her fears to rest.
A sound, like the leather sole of a shoe scraping across stone rasped from within the chamber. Was there another exit that branched out of the room, one which Erik had used?
"Maestro…? Is that you?"
Christine stepped into the room and lifted her lantern high.
A screeching cloud of darkness separated from the ceiling and dove at her. She screamed while falling hard to her knees. The cloud broke off into myriad particles, flapping around her and striking against her head and shoulders. She dug her chin to her chest and let go of the lantern to throw up her arms to shield her face, struggling not to cry while begging anyone who would listen for the horrid attack to cease.
What might have been seconds or minutes later she heard a familiar curse – his wonderful voice – followed by the blessed sound of running footsteps. The swish of something heavy sliced the air in repeated strikes. Cautiously she lifted her head a fraction to peek over one arm.
Erik waved his torch with vicious intent, sending the black little demons screeching in a mass of annoyance and flying away. Christine sat immobile on her knees, tightly clutching her skirts.
With the latest threat dispersed, Erik lowered himself beside her, releasing his hold on the torch he lay upon the stone ground, his hands gentle as he clutched her shoulders and intently studied her features. His brows gathered as he frowned and wiped her cheek with his thumb. She saw the blood that smeared it when he pulled his hand away.
"'Tis but a scratch." His voice came soft and reassuring, absent of all malice, and she wanted to crawl within its beauty. "What are you doing in here, ma belle?"
"I heard a noise. I thought it might be you."
He pushed a frazzled strand of hair from her brow. She trembled from memory of the attack.
"What were they?"
"Bats."
"Bats…?"
His lips twisted in an incredulous smile. "You speak as if you have never seen one."
"I haven't – until now." She shuddered in recollection of the noisome, ragged-winged creatures. "I've heard mention of them, in stories, but had yet to encounter the little beasts..." She thought of the sole type of rodent she had glimpsed inside these walls. "I've seen more rats than I care to for one lifetime, though…"
"Bats are much the same, with wings. They, too, prefer the darkness of the caves."
Christine had taken the route to his lair more than once, but this dwelling, as well as the pathway to reach it, had always been well-lit. Even on the night of his escape from the Don Juan opera, scattered candles had glowed throughout twisting corridors, and he had carried a torch. Now, in this medieval chamber of pre-Phantom darkness, there was no telling what manner of frightful creatures existed…
She again shuddered and he stood suddenly to his feet, holding his hand out to her.
"Come. Let us leave this place."
She laid her palm against his in absolute trust, not needing to ask their destination. With Erik beside her, even in the darkest chambers and most harrowing of moments, she felt reassured.
They exited into the main chamber, collected their possessions and ascended the natural pathway of stairs, taking the corridor through which he earlier disappeared, away from the lake. She recognized the area they walked through as his bedroom, vastly changed without the enormous bed. How heavenly it would be to sink into its plush feather depths at this moment, to slumber into dreams sweet and deep, with Erik beside her, holding her in the safety of his strong arms.
Christine withheld a weary sigh, determined not to display any further signs of weakness, and followed him through a passageway she never knew existed.
They walked for some time in the darkness of the twisting passage that ever so often ascended to another level. When she felt she could walk no further, they entered a second corridor. This one she thankfully noted had daylight glimmering at its end.
"We will wait here until night falls," he said and set down the basket he carried.
Likewise she dropped the roll of pelts and sank to the ground, using the thick fur as a cushion against her lower back. She looked up to where he stared with studied deliberation at the archway of daylight a short distance ahead. He seemed troubled and she wondered why.
"Come sit with me?" she invited softly and scooted over, to give him part of the pelt.
He stood still a moment, before taking her invitation and lowering himself beside her. With one leg stretched out before him, the other bent at the knee, his forearm resting on it, he looked no more at ease, and she watched as he clenched and opened his hand repeatedly.
Christine prevented herself from reaching for that hand to hold it in reassurance, sensing by his dour mood that her act of affection would be misconstrued and unappreciated. They sat in lengthy silence. She sought in her mind for a safe topic of discussion. Their past was out of the question, both the one shared and the false one he believed, their future uncertain and not conducive to creating a peaceable atmosphere, which left only one option.
"Tell me, who is the king of France now…or is it a queen?"
He looked at her askance, as if he could still not quite believe that she would retain no memory of the century in which they dwelt.
"King Louis XII is the reigning monarch."
"And does he have a queen?"
"Anne of Brittany. It was through their marriage a few years ago that the union between France and Brittany was fortified." He narrowed his eyes in curiosity. "You are truly that interested?"
"I think I should know something about the world in which I now live. Don't you?"
He gave a huffing sort of grunt and proceeded to regale her with the recent history of Brittany and Paris.
Christine found it astounding that he could make even the mundane facts intriguing – his voice a fluid ripple of silk, sometimes dark and sensual, other times an enticing murmur of riveting softness. As her Maestro, he had often captivated her with the lessons he gave – his melodic voice the lure that had drawn her to him in the first place.
He spoke of a former "mad" war, explaining what instigated it and the current Vicomte's stance involving it.
"A second war occurred a matter of years ago…"
His words trailed off as a confused expression came across his face.
"Maestro?"
He stared toward the archway that had significantly waned to twilight. "We must go." He turned his head to look at her. "Do you feel rested enough to continue?" He stood to his feet.
At the sudden shift of his mood, she looked at him with some concern but nodded and accepted his hand as he helped her to her feet.
.
xXx
.
The Phantom should be accustomed to loss of memory; the lapses of forgetfulness happened with irritating frequency. In the week before Christine arrived at his camp, he'd had two dark spells, and in the week after, two more - and before that…well, he simply did not remember.
What served to addle him now was that those former lapses of recall had always been personal, involving his life alone. True, he had been too young to recall details of the Mad War, but surely would have recalled the country's most recent affairs of state and not forgotten completely why the country had bloody well fought – even with whom the feud had been! That he recalled there even was a war and had forgotten all details gave him some cynical amount of amusement. Soon, he would be as challenged in overall memory as his dear wife who believed she came from a different epoch of time...
Truly, they were well matched.
He felt the tentative slip of her free hand loop softly against his arm.
The Phantom glanced her way, and his heart jarred against his ribs at the anxious little smile she gave. A small tremor inside his chest compared to the vicious jolt that slammed against his ribs when he had heard her terrified screams in the cave. A rush of fear had swept through him, as it had twice before – once at the lake in the forest, once on a dark Parisian street. To see the dark cloud of winged vermin swoop in and dive at her as she cowered helplessly on the ground had produced a fury within, to unleash his wrath on those attackers without.
The tears that had glistened in her eyes she'd turned up to him in relief twisted his heart then and now, spurring another memory unrelated to those experienced with her, one that seemed to come from the depths of a dream… a dark night of the soul…
"Maestro…are you alright?"
Her careful words brought him to the present and his lips twisted in a careless smile. "Of course. Once I locate my horse, we will make camp."
However Hades could not be found, though the Phantom scoured every foot of ground in the area where Tobias was to have tethered the stallion. His search produced a length of rope, frayed at one end. His horse had either broken loose or been stolen. Again.
No doubt by one of the Vicomte's men.
"Damn the scoundrel's worthless hide," he exclaimed through gritted teeth.
He returned to where he had left Christine sitting on a fallen log and holding the lantern. She stood immediately upon hearing the grass rustle and whirled to face him. Seeing her panic ease only slightly once she saw him, he shelved his angry frustration at their dilemma.
"Is everything alright?"
She huffed out a tense laugh. "It seems you are forever asking me that question – or I am asking you." She tucked her hair behind her ear. "It's only that I'm a bit jumpy…er nervous," she clarified. "I know I've said it before, but I don't like the darkness."
"The darkness can be beautiful, if you look beyond its shadows."
Christine shivered at how much he spoke like the Angel he'd once been to her.
"Yes, I know. The starlight. The moonlight…"
"Nocturnal beacons of celestial light, yes, but I speak of a different beauty."
He blew out the lantern, and, to her shock, doused the torch. The darkness that followed was absolute.
"Maestro…" Apprehension clouded her voice. "What on earth are you doing? Why did you put out the fire?"
"It is easy enough to light again."
"But why?!"
What she could not see, she felt, even before he stepped behind her. He wrapped his arm about the front of her waist, pressing her fully against him, his lips barely touching the rim of her ear. Her heart lurched then raced, and fear took a sudden sharp turn toward desire.
"To experience the beauty of the night," he whispered, "You must attune yourself as one with your surroundings…"
Her eyes fluttered and fell shut at the power he held over her, had always held over her. Power that only intensified since they had become one and she discovered those intimate mysteries…
"Do not try to shut out the darkness, ma damoiselle, nor ignore it. Embrace it…and listen to the melody that can only be heard within its hidden splendor."
Within his loose embrace, the usual terror of a world absent of light did not rend her senses. With her beloved protector so close, she could allow herself to relax and surrender the fear that had plagued her since childhood, the tension slowly seeping from her limbs as she melted against him. For the first time, perhaps ever in her life and without any sense of dread to spur her, she relaxed into her surroundings, attuning to its nuance of whispers...
The breeze was cool and soft, stirring the leaves, the chirrup of night insects and the whisper of long grasses adding to the night's melody.
"The sounds are lovely," she admitted, "but there is no beauty to see. It's too dark."
"Open your eyes," he whispered, gently cupping her chin and turning her head in another direction.
Christine gasped to see many blinking pinpricks of muted golden lights wafting near a cluster of distant bushes.
"What are they?" she softly exclaimed.
"Have you never seen fireflies?"
Had she? She couldn't recall any such experience. The night for her had always been something to evade, the occasions rare when she engaged in outside activities after twilight, especially once she made her home at the Opera House. She remembered so little of her childhood prior to that.
"They are so beautiful…" she breathed. "Like dancing fairies."
"The night is not all about the darkness. Concealed within its folds, it possesses its own muted glory."
A faraway howl broke into their wondrous moment, shaking her calm.
"The wolves…"
He sighed and moved away, making her wish she'd not said a thing.
"It's alright. It takes little time to produce a fire."
She heard the crack and scrape of flint strike until sparks shot out and caught the oil-soaked cloth. His movements, as with everything he did, were smooth and skilled, and soon the torch blazed, once more burning a golden orb of reassurance into the blackness. She watched as he securely staked the torch upright into soft earth, anchoring the bottom of the stake with small rocks.
"We're staying here?" she asked in some surprise. "I thought perhaps we'd ride further into the forest. Isn't this too close?" They had walked an uneven path for hours, but the dark silhouette of the sleeping city did not seem distant enough. "Will someone not see the smoke from our fire?"
"Not within these trees, not in the pitch black of night. Nor will we be riding. We must continue our journey on foot come morn, so you will need to get what rest you may."
She blinked in surprise. "Could you not find Hades?"
"Hades is gone. Perhaps he broke away, perhaps he was again taken."
Her mouth dropped open at the startling news. Even more startling was his placid composure, so unlike the Phantom that once terrorized the Opera House for ignoring his commands.
"You don't seem that upset."
"It is only a façade, I assure you. The Vicomte will get what is coming to him."
She shivered at the steel underlying the quiet silk of his tone. "You're so sure that he's the one responsible?"
"He has done so before. His ploy is to diminish my resources and leave me with nothing, cornered, like an animal to his trap." He turned fully to face her, twin pinpoints of fire mirrored in his eyes. "He will not succeed. What he has failed to recall is that a cornered animal can be the most deadly..."
Mentally and physically exhausted, Christine sank back down to sit on the fallen log and watched as he dug a shallow concave area then gathered branches, setting them in the center of the circle to build a fire. Once the flames caught, he unrolled the pelts.
"Lie down and sleep. I will keep watch."
"You need rest too," she countered.
"I am accustomed to going without slumber for as much as a week. Regardless, I slept well last night." His voice grew softer as he drew closer. "Having you beside me, both of us in accord, gave me a measure of calm that has been previously absent."
She accepted his hand to help her rise and smiled, pleased to hear it. Erik might not remember her, but at least she influenced his life in a helpful manner.
"Thank you, for showing me the darkness through your eyes. There truly is beauty in what cannot be seen…"
His mouth quirked wryly at her double entendre and she felt satisfied that he correctly interpreted her meaning. One day, she hoped soon, he would let her see beyond the mask.
His lips brushed her jaw near her mouth, but before she could turn and seek the satisfaction of his lips on hers, he pulled away.
"Sleep, Christine."
She crawled inside the pelts, watching him as he sat near, beside the fire, reminiscent of the last time they made camp together. To her knowledge, he didn't sleep then either. She wished he would abandon the night watch and come lay down beside her, but understood his reasoning and felt safe knowing that her dark Angel was again her safeguard.
That he remained upset was apparent, and she wished he would trust her as a confidante. She sensed his missing horse wasn't all that troubled him.
.
xXx
.
The dawn came sooner than Christine would have preferred. Similar to the last occasion, Erik woke her with a firm shake to her shoulder. This time, she was not so foolish to call him by name. And this time, thankfully, there were no scratchy robes emitting putrid odors – and her long undergown of a chemise was finally dry.
Christine ate the berries Erik had picked for them while she'd made herself more presentable, or at least respectable, then helped him gather their belongings, again grabbing the lantern while he took the remainder.
"Would you like me to carry the pelts?" she offered.
"I am well able to manage."
While he had proven that true, carrying the many items was clearly awkward, especially without a beast to bear the burden for the distance they must travel. And she sensed the actual reason he declined.
"Really, Maestro - I'm not some fragile doll that needs constantly to be mollycoddled. I feel much recovered, and can do my fair share of the work."
His brow lifted at her choice of words and the edge of frustration with which she said them.
"Very well, ma damoiselle. If you wish it."
At her nod, he plunked the thick bundle of furs in her outstretched arms, and they continued their long journey back to his camp.
"What is 'mollycoddled'?"
She would choose a word not known in this century, never mind that he had been the one to teach it to her!
"It means to pamper and indulge."
He was silent a moment. "What if I wish to pamper and indulge you? Are those not the acts a husband should bestow upon his new bride?"
The silken flow of his words produced a ripple of warmth to the center of her being.
"I…um…" She cleared her throat. "I like to be pampered now and then, there's not a woman alive who doesn't. But I just want you aware that I'm not made of porcelain."
"Porcelain?"
Oh, good heavens.
"China. Ceramic…?" At the perplexed shake of his head, she blurted, "a clay jar!"
"I am distinctly aware that you are not composed of clay, ma belle, but of silken flesh and warm blood."
"I-I suppose I used to be like clay," she said, flustered by the manner in which he spoke, clearly alluding to their encounters of intimacy. "Flawed, easy to shatter - but not any longer. I'm stronger than I once was."
He glanced her way. "Duly noted. I will award you your fair share of tasks and not treat you as…porcelain."
Her lips turned up at the corners with the baffled way he said the word, and she felt amazed that despite the dilemma they faced – running for their lives and without a horse to carry them – she could find something to smile about.
Through the closely interwoven branches of towering trees that surrounded them, she noticed the skies were overcast, a light opalescent grey.
"How is it that you know which direction to go?" she asked. "With no compass or the sun for guidance, I would be thoroughly lost…" Though in all likelihood, she would be lost while in possession of both.
"Do you see how the moss grows in abundance only on one side of the trees?"
She looked at the trees behind her, having noticed but never having put much thought into the reason for such a discrepancy.
"The moss prefers the north. Because it spreads thickly on the side of the trunks not facing us, we are traveling north."
She looked at him with no small amount of awe.
"How is it that you even know these things?"
He looked at her strangely. "Living as an outcast in the forest for the majority of my life does tend to aid in one's education."
"Of course. I wasn't thinking…"
From what she knew of Erik, his home for most of his life had been under the earth not on top of it. So it made no sense that he could be such a skilled woodsman in so few weeks, unless he'd read of such methods of survival within the pages of the many books he owned as the Phantom, and retained that knowledge deep within, which she supposed was a distinct possibility.
However, asking such inane questions clearly made him suspicious, considering what he had shared of his presumed history. Since the past was taboo, and the future brought unease, to opt for silence was the safest path. At least for now. Of course that could not continue - she didn't want him to think she was ignoring him either. Somehow she must find a way to bridge the chasm into acceptable conversation that protected them both, God help her. The question was how?
They walked for most of the morning, with only the birdsong and the wind rustling through the leaves to provide accompaniment to her thoughts, reminding her of the previous evening and Erik's lesson in its beauty. He had taught her to appreciate the music of the night, both here and at the Opera House with his dark but beautiful compositions and angelic voice, changing the course of her heart on so many things.
With him near, the darkness did not seem as fearsome…it never did.
After what felt like hours, they rested near a stream. While she patted her face and neck with the refreshing water, he disappeared into the trees, wearing his mask, and returned with one side of his face again wrapped in burlap.
At the curious lift of her brow, he explained, "People are less inclined to fear or ask questions when it appears I am only wounded, not masked as a bandit."
"People?"
"If my calculations are correct, we will soon be approaching a village. There, I will see about obtaining a horse."
They continued north. After a short time, a thin trail of smoke curled up in the distance ahead, a sign that they were finally nearing some form of civilization – however civil such an ancient culture could be. Still, Christine knew relief, because where there was smoke, there would be the promised people, and hopefully also an inn and the conclusion of the day's journey.
Minutes later, a village appeared through the fringe of trees, containing little more than a dozen buildings. People milled about at their tasks, and Christine was grateful to note that no soldiers or other form of law enforcement could be seen.
"Do you think they'll have an inn?" she asked the question uppermost in her mind.
His eyes swept her form and he gave a curt nod, pointing to a building with a sign that she wondered how he could even read from this distance.
"We will acquire a room, so that you may rest."
"What about you?"
"I must see to finding a horse."
They descended the shallow hill and walked among ramshackle buildings that looked as if a strong wind might knock them down, until they came to a three-story dwelling with the crooked sign Erik earlier pointed out, announcing their destination.
"Come…" He took hold of her elbow with his free hand.
She held back in sudden indecision. "No…wait."
The bed rest that earlier appealed no longer lured her, not if she must inhabit a strange room in this strange village alone, however briefly. She'd had enough of solitude at Notre Dame. Unwanted, the memory of the nightmare and her execution as a witch tormented her soul.
"I want to come with you."
"You must be exhausted –"
She briskly shook her head. "I want to come with you."
Their eyes locked. For a moment it looked as if he might argue, but he turned aside.
"Come then, if you wish it."
Christine tried not to concentrate on her weariness, pushing it aside, and walked with him through the square and to the open stall of the blacksmith, where the steady strikes of a hammer hitting metal rang through the air.
"You want something?" the blacksmith asked, halting his work.
The Phantom glanced at his bride, who looked as if she might drop if someone blew in her direction too hard, and nodded toward a wooden box with boards nailed to the top.
The grizzled blacksmith glanced her way as she took a seat on the box, a comfortable distance from the fiery forge, then looked toward the Phantom and grunted. Decades of his craft had honed the craftsman's arms and shoulders into a bulk of muscle as strong as the glowing red strip of iron he held with tongs and hammered on an anvil. Sweat and ash streaked his damp face, neck, and beard, coloring his homespun shirt to gray.
"You meet with an accident?"
The Phantom curbed the swift impulse to lapse into anger, despising when others pointed out anything with regard to his monstrous flaw. He had known that to bandage his face would invite curiosity, but it afforded him the anonymity he could never possess with a bandit's mask and a reward hanging over his head. What disturbed him most was to see Christine's eyes suddenly widen in shock as she also focused on the bound cloth that covered his scarred flesh.
"A loss of my horse," he answered gruffly, looking back to the blacksmith. "Know you where I may procure another?"
"You'll not be findin' horseflesh for market in this village." The blacksmith struck the fiery strip of iron with his hammer, a shower of golden sparks flying upward.
"The two mares tied up outside. Is one yours?"
The blacksmith squinted. "'Tain't my beasts. But the gent who owns both will not likely be wishing to part with either. They are here to be shod."
"Where can I find this man?"
"Like as not he be at the tavern. Look for a foreigner. Barely speaks the language." He struck iron with his hammer again.
The Phantom nodded. "I shall need supplies."
"They don't come free."
"I can pay." He held up a gold coin, at last gaining the blacksmith's undivided attention.
Once he related all that he needed, which the craftsman told him would be available the next day, the Phantom nodded toward Christine to follow and exited the stall.
She came up beside him. "Do you think he'll sell his horse to you?"
"I mean to use every method of persuasion available to achieve that end."
"Thank you."
He glanced her way in puzzlement. "For?"
"For not resorting to methods most familiar and," she lowered her voice, "stealing the horse."
His lips twitched at the corners. "Perhaps your presence is conducive to redeeming my black and tarnished soul."
She rolled her eyes a little at his wryly amused words. In truth, months ago he would have absconded with the beast when all eyes were looking elsewhere and thought nothing of it. But with Christine by his side, now as his wife, he dared not take the risk, and would do all he could to protect her from harm.
They drew abreast of a well, where some of the villagers gathered, and Christine held back. Again, he looked her way.
"Do you mind?" she asked. "I'm rather parched."
His brows drew together in remorse. "I will obtain refreshment to replace what we lost."
He hesitated and looked toward the villagers, all who openly gawked at him as if he was a scorned prisoner just returned from exile, a few also glancing at Christine, the question clear in their eyes as to what she was even doing in his company...
She wrapped her free arm through his in a show of trust, hoping the suspicious and curious would now turn aside and continue with their tasks.
Had no one ever seen a man with a cloth bandage wound around his head? She drew her brows together in concern at the spot of blood that soaked through and which she first noticed earlier. And how had he injured himself...?
A silver-haired scarecrow of a woman handed Christine her wooden dipper, smiling and nodding for her to take a turn with it. Christine regarded the unexpected show of kindness with astonishment, softly thanking her. At least not all the villagers here thought they had contracted the plague.
She dropped the bundle of furs and collected a dipperful, the cool water refreshing to her dry throat, then dipped again and handed it to Erik, cupping the ladle to catch any that spilled as she held it up to him. He looked at her in surprise and glanced at the people behind, but briefly accepted the ladle and took a drink. She turned to give the dipper back, but the old woman was gone. Christine scanned the vicinity, but failed to see her anywhere.
Curious, but not overly so, she laid the dipper on the stone rim of the well and picked up the pelts.
"Come," Erik said, taking her arm, and together they walked into the nearby tavern.
The one room was dimly lit with torches high on stone walls, rife with the stink of sweat and bitter with the odor of pungent ale. Groups of men sat around small tables, with the exception of a cloaked man who sat alone at a far table. The crimson feather in his curved black hat was unlike any style she had seen in Paris. Erik also must have come to the conclusion that this was the foreigner of horses they sought.
She followed him over the rushes, sodden with spilled ale and trodden from many shoes, to the far table.
"Pardon, monsieur," he greeted. "Are those your horses outside?"
The man turned to look at them, his slim dark brows lifting in curious shock at Erik's covered visage. He sported a fine black mustache and small goatee - and dark eyes that once they left Erik never wavered from Christine.
The Phantom bristled at the foreigner's clear interest in his wife.
"They are miei cavalli. Sì. Perché lo chiedi?" His brows puzzled as he tried to translate. "Why you ask?"
From her years of learning the operas, Christine deduced that the man spoke Italian, and searched her mind for how to reply with "we wish to purchase one." Unfortunately, those librettos never had the characters sing with such phrasing.
"I ask that you sell one to me - Vendere uno."
Christine's eyes widened with shock at the Italian that slipped from Erik's lips and noted the bafflement that lit his own uncovered eye before he continued.
"My wife and I were robbed of our horse and have far to travel. I will pay well. Ti pago bene." At this he pulled his cloak aside a fraction, drawing attention to the pouch of coins tied to his belt. He made sure that the sword hanging at his waist was also seen.
The little Italian man shook his head in refusal, but invited them to sit at his table. Erik bought a round of ale. Christine sipped the dark stout brew, listening with amazement as the two men discussed and haggled, the foreigner revealing himself as a traveling merchant, and Erik's use of Italian growing more fluent the longer they spoke.
As Le Masque, when she told him of the opera, he mentioned he did not know the language. As her Maestro of the Opera House, it wouldn't surprise her to learn that he had gained more than a passing knowledge of Italian while learning music, something obviously retained – but this must be quite bewildering to him since he had no recollection of those days.
The men talked, and another round of ale was ordered. Erik's magnanimous gesture proved beneficial as the Italian merchant grew relaxed and compliant. Christine was still nursing her first ale when the third round came, and shortly following that, the foreigner's agreement to sell one of his horses.
Erik retrieved several gold coins from his purse slapping them to the table and pushing them toward the Italian, who nodded and pocketed each one, clearly inebriated. Erik stood and looked at Christine.
"Shall we go?"
"But – that's it? Don't you need a bill of sale?" She had seen the staff and crew sign and exchange papers when crates of goods were delivered backstage to the opera house.
At his mystified expression, she sighed. "A written agreement – something to show the blacksmith and anyone else who might inquire. Proof you didn't steal the horse."
His eyes narrowed, his mouth a grim line, but he considered her words then nodded. Upon inquiry, he located a scrap of vellum and a hunk of coal, wrote words to that effect, then signed it and gave the coal to the Italian to do the same. The man did not question, could barely remain sitting upright, and scribbled his name onto the vellum. Task accomplished, Erik rolled up the vellum and slipped it inside his cloak then looked her way.
"Christine?"
She joined her husband, noting that the two and a half tankards of ale seemed to have little effect on him as he walked steadily and swiftly with her to the door. She, on the other hand, felt a trifle giddy from the one tankard she'd imbibed.
"I regret to inform you that I have only enough coin for a meal or for a bed, but not both," he said brusquely. "The price of the horse and supplies were far more than I anticipated, so you must choose."
They stepped outdoors, and Christine's eyes immediately sought out the well. A different group of villagers now gathered near it. On each side stood places of commerce, resembling stalls made of rock and wood, more than actual shops. One sold clay jars and similar containers. Another appeared to sell grain.
An idea beckoned, perhaps influenced by the strong brew clouding her mind, but the more she thought on it, the greater the appeal, reminding Christine of her nomadic childhood and traveling with Papa, before making a home at the Opera and finding her Angel there...
"Christine?" he prodded.
She gave him a saucy grin. "Who says we must choose, when we can have both?"
"You don't understand. I would want a private chamber, not a common room where the accursed can gawk and stare, and that will require more coin, all I have left," he said somewhat impatiently.
"I do understand – I wouldn't want to share a room with strangers either. But do you recall earlier today when I asked you to allow me to do my fair share of the work? This is the perfect occasion – I will sing for our supper!"
Her smile widened with barely contained zeal, and she grabbed his cloaked arm in her excitement.
His confusion was apparent.
"Come, dear Maestro, I will show you..."
And with those words, she urged him toward the well.
xXx
A/N: No cliffie here – aren't I nice? ;-) – Don't worry, those of you who love heart-stopping action and drama and the tense, jaw-dropping scenes - I have more planned for these two…enjoy the lulls while you may – these quiet moments of E/C bonding. :)…Also, while writing this chapter, I noticed a peculiar and unintentional trend with a few of my stories – through no fault of his own, Erik can never seem to keep track of his horse! LOL