Author's Note: A shout out goes to my new Beta, PhantomoftheBroadgrass, for suffering a multitude disjointed and incomplete thoughts to make this Chapter. Not to mention being my Brainstorming Buddy through the rough points of this and the next two chapters. Without her input, this would have taken at Least another week to get out to you.

Additional, many thanks for MarilynKC and Femke-the-Lotus for commenting every week when the Chapters Load. Cheers to you both!

Christine's Promise

Christine cared for Erik.

It was strange and perplexing, but true in every respect.

His answers to her questions on a subject matter that dominated her thoughts ever since her luncheon with Raoul left her in more of a maelstrom than she ever expected. While Erik's response gave some sense of relief in his want of her prosperity, it also brought her misery for his want for death. Would he really come to view life as not worth living if his speculative wife died?

Speculative… right…

Who were they fooling as they danced around that little fact? Erik's eyes were on her for that possible role. He knew it, she knew it, yet admitting it aloud might as well be uttering a curse. Though, Christine supposed her flight of him when he initially admitted his affection was of no help either. So, they danced on that thin veil that had since fell from its hook.

In a world where her voice was often silenced and the chains of societal expectations pulled at her spirit with a force greater than gravity, Christine found questions growing within. Yet, none of those questions came clearly enough to put into words fit for asking. They lingered deep within, present and invisible all at once. How could she begin to put them to rest without knowing what each of them were?

Despite his words, Raoul seemed to have a concerning view that love should be felt so deep between spouses that with the death of one, the other should soon perish in solidarity.

Erik's answers threw her by the variance. He wanted longevity and happiness in the event of his death, and just a visit with kind. Yet, if she died, he wanted to die with her.

By comparison, Raoul's views were so narrow and lacking in tangible reasoning, despite his lengthier explanation. Erik? He spoke far less, yet said so much more.

Erik was a strange man.

Unlike any other man she had encountered.

Christine lay in bed staring out the small part in the curtains to the few specks of stars beyond the pane. Meg was on the opposite wall of their shared room. Sleeping soundly with little snores that escaped her every so often, filling the darkness and dreadful long shadows with quiet growls. It sounded like the cub of an imagined monster under her bed when she was child. Even now, knowing better, Christine never dared hang an arm, leg, or foot over the side.

In her mind, she summoned one of Erik's melodies to shut out those childish nerves as they teased her senses.

When she closed her eyes, she saw his poor face again. He allowed her to unmask him to explore and understand the twisting turns of his mangled visage; to feel the slight sheen of perspiration on soft skin apart from scars and a few callouses caused by the mask. Every groove and ridge were meticulously clean, which should not have surprised her in consideration of how kempt he liked to keep, but it did anyway.

He trembled under her touch, and she felt his fear in every involuntary shudder that quaked through him. Had he really not known a moment of love or care? Was having a have a kind hand upon him really so foreign? The idea that this terrible absence of kindness or compassion in Erik's life became a tormenting thought. Touch starved, lonely…

It broke her to have him melt into her lap and weep in silence, where only his shivers and tears betrayed him; a shamed and needy child, broken down by the world. Christine never expected to see such vulnerability from Erik, or even a man. He lowered a barrier between them, daring to let her in to glimpse his soul.

Whether intentional or not, Christine did not care. It deepened the bond that was growing between them. She had given him her secrets and struggles for months, and he was now just beginning to let her see his torments.

When she sank upon him in an odd and one-sided embrace, Christine understood his want for death if his wife– if she— died before him. Even if she disagreed with him and wanted to help him find the will to live on, it would not be a battle easily won unless Erik could somehow become accepted by the world. At least in some marginal measure.

As she traced the small patterns in the weave of Erik's expensive tailcoat then, and now, as she struggled for sleep to claim her, Christine knew with absolute clarity, what lay ahead.

I will help you find your place. Just as you are helping me.

~x ~x ~X~ x~ x~

Late the next morning, a bright smile stretched across her face as the cab she and the Girys shared to the opera rolled up to their usual entrance. Erik was there waiting for them, hands clasped right over left, which Christine started to understand was a way to deflect attention away from his fidgeting fingers. He wore that charcoal gray jacket with black velvet accents, a cobalt blue vest, a silvery silk cravat, and a black full mask patterned with silver and blue because his fashion sense demanded that he matched. At least, that's what she assumed.

"You are so smitten," Meg teased in her ear.

"Am not…" she uttered the childish rebuttal in a half-hearted purse of her lips to hide her smile.

"Are too!" she proclaimed in a whisper before the wheels stopped rolling over brick pavers.

"Ladies," Annette chided across from them, but offered a small smile.

When the cab stopped, Erik opened the door and extended a hand to assist their exits. Christine stepped out last, with her smile only brightening. She knew he saw it by the way his posture somehow straightened more with those mismatched orbs softening more when he looked at her. Their hands remained joined longer than necessary, but neither were ready to break such a simple touch either.

Erik's eyes fell to her hand for a long breath, then a whisper, "I want to."

Christine did not look down, but felt the brush of his thumb over her fingers. "I know," she softly replied, giving his fingers a squeeze before letting their hands fall to their sides.

A small trance seemed to break in that parting, but Christine remembered the small basket hanging on the crook of her arm. "Oh! I almost forgot," she said, shifting to tug it free and offered it to him. "This is for you!"

"For me?" Erik asked, eying the wicker like it was some strange creature that was about to sprout legs.

"Yes! For you."

He slowly accepted it and parted the linen to see what was inside. Sunlight illuminated the steam rising off her baking creation of a braided pastry with a deep brown and sweetened crust.

"It's a cardamom bun. It was Mama's recipe. I made it this morning and thought you might like some too."

Erik looked at the basket for longer than anyone would look at a breakfast bun. The full mask gave her nothing to read, only the shifting tension in his jaw. The cravat hid much of his throat, but she thought there was a bob of a long deep swallow.

"I know it is no tart," she said, almost sensing what he needed to collect himself.

Erik lifted his gaze from the basket to her, an extra shimmer lingering in his eyes.

"I'm pretty sure I did not mistake salt for sugar, but if I did, you simply must forgive me. I did wake up very early to make them."

A small laugh escaped him; a real laugh, not a little chuckle on masquerade. Even better was the flash of a wide toothy smile, an especially rare achievement for her.

"Thank you," he managed to say, voice not the clearest of tone yet. "It is very thoughtful, and I look forward to tasting it, no matter which white granulate you might have used."

"You are welcome," Christine grinned.

"Excuse me, my dear," Annette softly interjected after a moment, with her hand falling to Christine's arm. "I need to speak with Erik a moment while you go get settled. Time is short."

Christine gave a nod to her benefactor, though she did not want to leave.

"Christine, if you would be so kind to keep this for me so I may delight in your creation at the break," Erik asked as he held the basket out to her.

"Of course," she replied as she took it, glancing between the pair. "I'll see you inside?"

They both gave a nod, Erik's more subtle.

As Christine joined Meg at the door leading into the opera, they hooked arms while she stole a glance back to see Erik stiffen.

"Did he not want it?" asked Meg.

"Hmm? Oh, no. We have just a few minutes before rehearsal and he's not one to be so improper as to rush. He'll have it at the break, I'm certain."

"He's silly for not having a taste of it now, while it's still warm."

"Well, maybe if someone wasn't so slow in rising this morning, we would not nearly be so late, and he would have?"

Meg sniffed the air with a glance heavenward. "I've not the faintest idea what you're talking about."

Christine elbowed her playfully, and the girls laughed loudly together.

It took only minutes for Christine to deposit her belongings and Erik's basket before she went to the largest rehearsal room, where others were already gathering. Unsurprisingly, Erik was waiting just outside the doorway for her and followed her inside to observe.

As far as rehearsals went, it was not the worst one she had ever attended. Principals got to sing through everything well enough, for them. However, the understudies were relegated to nothing more than a few moments outside, apart from chorus. Regardless Il Muto's successful opening for the first two performances, they were still viewed as nothing and treated as though their contributions were meaningless.

Christine got to sing marginally more thanks to the clause in her contract. She was guaranteed no less than three solos per week as Erik had insisted. However, the same could not be said for Murphy and Alison, who looked rather miserable and underutilized. Long faces and downcast eyes, accompanied by crumpled scores with meaningless parts, sparked empathy for their plight.

Christine twisted a handkerchief in her hands while keeping her eyes down to conceal copious amounts of boredom and lacking challenge. Her jaw was set, but she tried to occupy her mind with something productive while she listened to Reyer running the principals through the scenes. While she never had much issue in keeping her attention to the present as necessary, the hours stretched on with mind numbing slowness and with it, her ability to pay attention to things that did not involve her. Focus became a struggle without being nudged back to the subject.

The only times she looked up, apart from the rare instance of being called upon, was in a glance to Erik.

He kept well out of the way, a shadow in a corner that was easily missed unless sought out. Each time she spared him a glance, his eyes found hers, while his hands were either white knuckled fists at his sides, or buried under the arms he crossed over his chest. It was hard to dismiss the roiling nature of his restrained agitation.

Thoughts of Erik running rehearsals began leaking into her mind as she fiddled with the rolled music. He would be the commander in every sense of the word. The cast would be the disheveled company of new enlists that needed that authoritative instruction on expectations and training. There would be no question of skill or favoritism.

Apart from me…possibly, she thought with a wince. With him, that could go either way, depending on the day. Did his passion for music override affection for someone? It was very possible.

The new dyad of Firmin and Andre were a detriment to the progress, meddling in Reyer's job in running the rehearsal. They forced favor onto the stars in their efforts to appease and thus neglect those who were not. Reyer was not given much choice in the matter. As a respected musician, he juggled a job meant for three men; conducting the orchestra, directing the performance, and managing the chorus. Yes, he had subordinates that managed many minor things for him, but as a whole, he led and controlled everything as the prior owners of those positions moved on to other opportunities.

Phantoms supposedly did not help the cause in keeping those men around.

Erik as a director – any directorial role at the opera - was an intriguing thought.

A very intriguing thought.

Christine cast another glance towards Erik as she shifted in her seat.

Those very telling hands were now tucked tight behind the small of his back. The masks were a barrier to reading what dominated his thoughts in a given moment, especially when he presented as his public persona. Without the subtle cues of his eyes and mouth, his hands were the best way to gauge him.

And he hid them.

She noticed he hid them when he was aware of his disposition. Often, Erik slipped his left hand behind its quieter sibling, under the fedora, under folded arms, and in this instance, behind his back. A youngster fidgeting was often discouraged and corrected – at least in the more polite reactions. Fidgeting was viewed as unruly and rude in children. As an adult? Christine possessed no comprehension of what that entitled. If it was so negative in an adolescent, it had to be worse for someone fully-grown. It was just not done, not by any adult that was not committed to an asylum or a pauper begging for coin.

Except for Erik. The rare exception.

It pained Christine to see Erik stifle and hide something she found so endearing.

Lost in reverie while looking toward him, Christine drifted back to self-awareness when her eyes met his and he tilted his head to the side as if to say, What?

Christine did not have a chance to convey a response before Alison leaned over to whisper in her ear. "Are you alright? You look a bit dazed."

Christine blinked several times and looked to her fellow outcast. Alison and Murphy being understudies was hard enough. The added fact that they hailed from England drove the wedge in the Garnier's cast deeper. Few interacted with them apart from her. "Yes, yes, I'm fine. I guess you could say I was trying remember what it was like to have a proper rehearsal."

"At this rate, I don't think we ever will. Not with how they fawn over her," Alison sighed with a weary motion towards the managers placating the Diva without end.

"I must admit, I was wondering how things would go if L'Chantseur was in charge."

"Really?" Alison glanced to him. "What would that be like?"

A small smile tugged at the corners of her mouth. "Better than this," Christine motioned to the circus before them. "Do not mistake me. He is very strict when it comes to music and voice. He also does not know how to sugar his words at all, but you can be assured that whatever he does say will be honest."

"I will take blunt honesty over nothing at all. At least I can learn whatever I am lacking."

"Oh, you will learn that, and probably more."

Alison grinned, "I will take whatever I can get. Murphy and I were planning on practicing during the break. I think it fair to say, that Murphy and I would appreciate it if both you and L'Chantseur would join us."

"That depends on him, as he is likely to be quite riled after this."

"Oh?"

Christine's smile softened. "He is very passionate about music and performance. When he deems something inadequate to his very exacting standards, it takes a bit for him to unwind. He will want to work with me on everything that was not to par, and beyond that… I don't know."

"Well, I hope he might be agreeable to working with us."

"I will see what I can do."