Gift Four
"The Blanket"

CHRISTINE DAAÉ'S JOURNAL

I am nobody's wife.

I must remember that! Erik and I have not yet had a wedding, and so we are not married and I am not his wife. It is suitably improper to be carrying on the way we have been… for every night for the past month we have slept together in the same bed. Nothing has come of it, of course – that is the hill I vow to die on, since locked down here I can hardly make haste to a confessional! I must, therefore, be diligent with my virtue, and honorable with my ways. My thoughts are dismal and my hope for my future is bleak, and I sorely doubt I shall ever have a chance to reconcile my sins before my death.

For his part, Erik has not attempted anything beyond the first night. I have not 'tempted' or 'teased' him with the wine again; and he has made good on his word to keep the kitchen stocked with adequate milk for the nights when dreams are hard to fall into.

All the same, I must salvage what remains of my virtue, and rid the situation of temptation – for the both of us. To do that, though, I see only two ways: marry the poor man, or remove him from my bed. And as I have not the resources (nor the strength) to do the first, I shall need to do the latter.

"Erik, I fear I am getting pneumonia."

She hated herself for even saying it. But it had the intended effect. After copious sessions of crying and speeches of self-hatred, she finally got the response she was seeking:

"Whatever shall we do? Hmm... I can't very well let you catch your death down here."

"What if," Christine said, pretending like the idea just came to her all of a sudden, "I were to return to performing?"

He scratched his terrible chin. "How would you do that? The Opera house is all the way up there, and we are all the way down here."

"You could bring me up," she suggested after a moment of feigned deliberation, "and then, when the performance is over, you could bring me back down."

He considered that for a long moment. "How would this help with the pneumonia?"

"It is so dreadfully damp down here," Christine said. "For you it is not an issue, because you are out and about most of the day – but I spend all day and all night here. The moisture is getting to my lungs. I think, perhaps, I just need some fresh air, a couple times a day."

"Fresh air…?" He shook his head. "No. The Opera house is too stifling for that. The Bois would be more suitable."

"We can go to the Bois, too," Christine said.

Sometimes, with all his emotional meltdowns and tantrums, she forgot just how intelligent he really was.

"What is this 'too,' Christine? Why must it be the Bois and anything else?" Erik asked, narrowing his eyes. "Unless this is not about fresh air at all…?"

It wasn't worth insulting him further, trying to deceive him. So she braced her shoulders, and held her head up high, and came straight out with it: "I would like very much to return to my position, Erik. I have trained for far too many years – have worked far too hard - to just let my talent go to waste as I wither away down here. I know it will cause some logistical issues for you, but this arrangement we have is hardly a perfect fit for us both, as it is."

He studied her. "And that's it?"

"That's it," she said.

"That's all you want?"

"That's all I want."

Intently his eyes pierced hers, as if to stare into her soul. Long they stood, locked in that match, resolute and serious. And then he shrugged. "As you wish, then. You'll start again on Tuesday. We'll prepare you for the role of Inês de Castro."

"But the company is currently putting on Lohengrin, wouldn't it be better if I prepared for a role such as Elsa?" There was no point in acting humble and pretending Erik wouldn't be pulling strings to get her the leading role.

Clearly, though, she had missed his point. "They can rehearse that Wagner drivel all they want, but I'll be damned if I let them reveal it to the public. You will be Inês de Castro because that will be what is actually performed."

She had long since learned not to doubt him on such matters.

The matter finished, then, she turned to leave the room.

"What about the Bois?" he asked suddenly, before she could escape the conversation. "Will we still be going to the Bois?"

Christine waved him off weakly. How to admit the pneumonia had been nothing but a ruse? "I should think I will be fine without it. The Opera will do plenty good for my lungs."

"Oh," he said sadly. "But you will let me know if you change your mind?"

"Yes, dear."

The rehearsals swept her away. They were just as exhilarating as she remembered, and just as exhausting, as well.

And yet it was so very lonely to return to the company. She had disappeared off the the face of the Earth for months, only to return and be handed the leading role on a silver platter. Not only that, but the entire show was changed for her. It was not a look that made her popular with the others; the ballet and chorus girls she had come up with no longer paid her any mind, and other members would often whisper behind their hands about the curious circumstances that surrounded her re-entrance to the company.

Living with no other person besides Erik for the past how many months had lulled her into a false sense of importance, despite her best attempts to avoid it. She found herself stunned and hurt on her first week when none of the girls would respond to her attempts at conversation. She had been the center of Erik's universe for so long, had been showered with praise every second of the day; and now suddenly, here amongst the rest of the world, she felt so tiny and insignificant.

It was strange; on particularly long rehearsal days, she found herself longing to return home to Erik. His smothering attention had seemed so suffocating for so long, but now she looked forward to it…

It wasn't love. She knew that. She loved him and she knew this particular feeling wasn't love. This was a reminder of the confines of their relationship, and of the strange entanglement they had each other in. Perhaps if Erik was less stifling with his attention… if she didn't have him hovering around her all the time… staring at her with his sad puppy-dog eyes as she tried to fall asleep…

She pillaged the costume department to find it: seven skeins of soft wool yarn in a variety of muted colors. She wasn't quite sure what colors he would like, but if she was being honest she knew he'd be happy with anything just because she picked them out.

And so she began; on her solitary rehearsal breaks, when the other girls would talk amongst themselves about things they knew nothing about, she would sit herself upon the floor, fold her legs under her skirt, take out her yarn, and crochet for however long she could. Her bag of yarn she carried up from the house, much to Erik's curiosity, but she explained it away easy enough as a simple hobby that women do.

Once, the nosy ballet girl Meg Giry had inquired as to what exactly she was doing.

"I'm making a blanket," Christine replied.

"Surely the Comte de Chagny can afford blankets of his own," Meg scoffed. "And I hardly think he'd like that ratty one you're making that's covered in dust from the stage, anyway."

That made Christine laugh! Without thinking, she replied curtly, "Who says this is for the Comte?"

And the rumors went mad from there.

In just a few short weeks, the blanket was finished and Christine was ready to give it to him.

She was very much aware that her previous attempts to surprise him with a gift had not gone over well, to say the least. But Erik knew about the blanket already; he had seen her working on it, no doubt, from his secret hidey-holes around the theater, and he had seen her carry it up and down the stairs each day. He had to know it was for him.

So that night, when he was sitting in his favorite armchair by the fireplace, she kneeled before him and offered it up to him.

"Is this what you've been working on?" he asked bemusedly.

She nodded, waiting for his reaction.

He splayed his long boney fingers over it, feeling the soft threads. Then he picked it up and held it up, a little bit, before him. "The craftmanship is… well, you did very well for your first time, Christine."

She blushed. Certainly she already knew she wasn't the most skilled at this! She'd crocheted little more than scarves and change purses before – never anything this large and intricate. He didn't need to make a comment about it.

But then he was handing it back to her, which made her blush scarlet. Was he really rejecting her gift? Did he think it wasn't good enough? He was a man of fine taste, sure, but she had thought – if it was from her –

Suddenly Meg Giry's words came back to haunt her. I hardly think he'd like that ratty one you're making.

Oh, this was a horrible mistake! She was so ashamed! She was all but ready to throw it in the fire when Erik's calm voice drifted down to her, unaware of her mortified turmoil.

"Would you like me to wrap it around your shoulders for you, Christine?"

"My shoulders?" she asked.

"Why – well, yes, dear. You're shaking. Are you cold?"

Yes, she was shaking, but not because she was cold! But better to be forthright with him, and ask him, honestly, "Do you really think the blanket is so bad?"

"Is that what's bothering you?" He reached down and touched her chin to tilt her head up to him. He smiled slightly, and for once his rotten features didn't look quite so horrible. "Christine, it's the most perfect blanket I've ever seen."

Why was he being so nice? That wasn't like him. There could only be one reason… he hated the blanket and didn't want to tell her! "Then why don't you want it?"

"Why don't I…" he stared at the blanket in her lap. "It's yours, Christine. Why would you want me to want it? I'm afraid I don't understand your thinking…"

Oh.

"I made it for you," she explained softly, still a little hurt, "because I stole all your blankets."

"Oh," he said, and then set his eyes upon the blanket again with fresh sight. "Oh, Christine, I..." His voice broke.

He leaned down, slowly, to touch it again, and she lifted it up so it'd be easier for him to reach.

"It's - very -" He had tears in his eyes...

Oh, no. Christine knew that look. Something had gone dreadfully wrong again. "Erik, what's wrong?"

"Christine…" Now the tears were really flowing. He looked the picture of anguish. "Am I so despicable?"

"Wait, Erik, I sense there's been a -" she stopped herself before she could say miscommunication, recalling the way he had reacted the last time she'd said it. But what was she supposed to say instead?

"Christine is disgusted with Erik," he whimpered, writhing his boney fingers into the holes of the blanket and clutching it tight in his fists. He rocked himself slightly in his seat. "She knows what he thinks at night, as she lies asleep beside him...! And although she is entirely innocent, he is not – but, Christine, believe me - please, Christine, you must believe me – I have never touched you! Not ever!"

That was assuredly untrue, as Christine remembered the first night they'd spent together in great detail, but she let him continue on his sobbing tirade regardless.

"But that's what it must be... Christine cannot bear to spend another night beside poor hideous Erik!" He held the blanket to his chest – then to his nose socket, where he inhaled thickly. "It smells just like her… but it won't for long! Every moment with her is so short and so fleeting... why do you torture me like this, Christine?"

"I'm not trying to torture you," she said weakly. "I just thought you would like it if you had a new blanket. And then you could go back to your own bed…"

"I know exactly why you gave this to me, damn it! Do you think me dense, Christine?" Tears were still streaming down his face, but his breathing was less wild now. He dropped the blanket in his lap and held his face in his hands. "There has been no miscommunication this time..."

She shook her head, not understanding. "Erik, you're upset -"

"And I have no reason to be, I know." His voice had darkened substantially, and was crystal clear as well - as if he hadn't just bawled his eyes out. He lifted his face up, and Christine saw it was contorted in a restrained sort of agony - a far cry from the inconsolable sobbing mess he'd been mere moments ago.

He turned from her, only a quiver on his bottom lip reminding her of his tears. He locked his jaw. "Tell me, Christine, how much does it bother you that we've shared a bed for nearly two months? Because of – what was it? – ah, yes, the blankets. Tell me, if you please?"

"I -" What was she to say? "It hasn't been the most comfortable of arrangements…"

"That's what I thought," he said curtly. He stood from the chair, fisting the blanket in his white-knuckled grasp, and strode the length of the parlor. At the archway, he paused and looked back with a bite of bitterness blazing in his eyes.

"Thank you for the blanket, Christine. Truly. It is perhaps the loveliest thing I've ever received. And - I do hope you can finally get a peaceful night of sleep after this, just like you wanted. Good night."