"What are you reading?"
Christine jumps at the sound of Erik's voice. Closing the Bible, she turns to see him standing in the doorway leading to the kitchen. "You startled me; did not hear you return."
"One of the qualities of being an angel or ghost – as some refer to me – is being able to appear supernatural. To move noiselessly through the world as if you are invisible," he replies with a wave of his hand and a small bow. Standing upright again, he continues in a tone devoid of the earlier sarcasm. "There is another entrance. I am surprised you did not notice when you were finding a treat for the little lady here."
"How did you know?" Shifting in her seat, her eyes wide awaiting his response.
"No mystery, actually…I simply know my cat. She never fails to sit on my work or what I am reading…the only way to have her behave is giving her something to eat…then there was the clean dish in the rack." Taking a moment to scratch Isis' head before placing a paper bag on the coffee table along with a pink cardboard box, he steps back. Once the gifts are delivered he finds himself unsure of where to go, so simply stands watching her.
"What are these?" Christine asks, setting the Bible down next to her on the sofa.
"Open them and you shall see." Rocking back and forth on his feet, he avoids meeting her eyes.
Taking up the bag, she opens the brown parcel and looks inside. "Yarn – skeins of yarn – I see red and blue and green…and needles." Tears fill the blue eyes as she looks up to Erik. "How thoughtful of you."
"You offered to make a tea cozy," he mumbles.
Laughing lightly, she replies, "Indeed I did. I shall begin work on it after our dinner."
Releasing his bated breath, he lifts his chin, indicating she address the other gift.
The pink box tied with white string meant baked goods…as she knew from the petit de jeunier during rehearsals. The sweet fragrance of still warm pastry teases her nose. "Croissants!"
"And?"
"Macarons! Oh, Erik, how did you know?" Picking one up, she takes a small bite, her eyes close in pleasure.
"The croissants were a given – all the dancers enjoy them, or so I have noticed," he says. "With you, I observed when macarons were part of the offerings, you always took two without hesitation. For someone normally quite generous about the food, letting the others choose first – your desire for the cookies was obvious."
"Oh, my," she says, a pink flush rises on her face. "You saw that? I am so embarrassed."
"Well, now you can have them whenever you want," he says.
"I am afraid I should get bored."
"Then another treat might be found – eclairs…meringues."
"I suppose." Putting the rest of the macaron back into the box, she closes the lid then returns it to the table. Folding her hands on her lap, she bites her lower lip before asking, "Do you always watch me?"
"You are alone in the world." The words come out sharp and abrupt – even to his own ears…against his will. Hardly the way he wishes her to know him. Why does he feel so defensive? Why is she not pleased? During their talks, she would speak of her concern about being alone since her father died. How she often felt unsafe. "Young women alone in the world can be taken advantage of. You have seen that happen on a daily basis – you have told me as much. You, yourself experienced something of the sort."
"You mean Raoul? He is a friend…an old friend."
"A patron of the theater come back stage to entice a showgirl," Erik says, feeling the heat rising throughout his body. "What makes you think he is unlike the other men who pay their way to come backstage to watch you dance?"
"We knew each other as children – I told you that."
"And he is now a wealthy man and you are a performer in an opera house…only one level up from the street in the minds of those like him." This is not what he planned for this evening. Nothing seems to suit her. Determined to keep his temper under control, he grabs the box of pastry from the table and turns toward the kitchen. "I shall plate these with the rest of your dinner."
"Wait… please," she says, reaching a hand out to him. "Come back. Please. Sit. Talk to me."
Stopping, he takes a deep breath, willing his heartbeat to slow down. With a short nod, he acquiesces to her request. Once seated in a leather wing-backed chair, he sets the box down on the ottoman.
"So, you became my protector?"
"Does that displease you?"
"I suppose not…not exactly. Not when you put it that way," she says. "I just wish I had known. The idea of you following me about and watching me makes me uncomfortable."
"When you called me your Angel of Music, I thought you wanted a guardian angel as well – you talked of your father in that way…and how you missed his presence. How when he was around you felt safe in the world. Would he have allowed a strange man in your dressing room?"
"Probably not. Pappa was a person – just like you are a person. I also doubt he would have approved of you giving me singing lessons pretending to be an angel."
"Would you have accepted me as a man – even before having seen my face?" he asks through clenched teeth. The fury he felt earlier returns. Measuring his words, he says, "I heard you sing and all I could think of was wanting to hear more, but then you were crying. I never claimed to be an angel. You called me Angel. "
"That is true…I am happy you are a man…I…I just do not like the idea of being followed and watched whatever the good intentions," she says. "You must promise not to do it again."
Ignoring her request, Erik asks, "You are happy I am a man?"
"Of course, although it was rather fun to have an angel all my own – one who taught me to love singing again. This has meant the world to me."
"Well, then now that you are here, you need no longer be concerned about any of those things making you uncomfortable," he says, getting up again.
At the promise of another treat, Isis jumps down from the couch, disrupting the Bible – the carefully sorted documents fall to the floor.
"Oh, Isis, look what you have done," Christine scolds, getting on her knees to recover the papers. After straightening them, she returns them to the black book.
"What is that book?" Erik asks, taking the book from her as he helps her to her feet. "A Bible? Where did you find this?"
Christine catches her breath and smiles, holding the papers out to him. "In the bookcase – you suggested I find something to read."
"From all the books on those shelves – this is what you chose?"
"My Mama used to read to me from hers," she says, backing away from him. "You sound angry at the Bible, just like Pappa. He would not let me take Mama's with us. He was angry with God that He allowed her to die, I think…he never really explained."
"I was not aware the thing even existed…I unpacked my mother's books without really paying attention…what are those papers?"
"Documents of your birth…your parents' marriage…some daguerreotypes…other things," she says, handing them to him.
"You were looking through private papers?"
"I wanted to read the Bible. They fell out. I picked them up to put them back and…yes, I looked at them," she replies, her face flushing. "I was not prying…well maybe I was, but I was curious. The daguerreotypes of your mother and father…"
The confusion finds him turning first in one direction, then another – the book in one hand, the papers being crumpled by the other. "Likenesses of my mother and father? A record of birth?"
"There are some drawings…a few mementoes." Christine nods, taking a tentative step toward him. "You did not know?"
Erik shakes his head, falling back into the leather chair. After setting the Bible on the ottoman next to the pastry box, he fingers through the papers until he finds the photographs. "I never knew what my father looked like. I never saw him."
"This is hardly the place for a young nobleman to drown his sorrows," Nadir says.
Barely outside the stage door, Raoul sits on a hand cart parked alongside the building. The conversation with Buquet both frustrates and angers him. The fool knows where Christine is but refuses to help him go to her. All this business about a Phantom. Phillippe warned him not to become attracted to any of the performers.
"Then why go at all? You certainly have your interests addressed."
"What I do is my business."
"I am no longer a boy."
"Then do not act like one."
The pat on the cheek was more than he could tolerate. Raising a fist, he struck out at his brother, who promptly grabbed his wrist. "Do not ever raise your hand at me."
"Stop treating me like a child," Raoul responded. "If I find myself attracted to a young lady, I shall make my interest known."
Phillippe's pale blue eyes grew cold. "At your own risk. Just remember the illusion of purity does not guarantee the reality."
Was Phillippe right. Much to his annoyance his older brother usually was. Now who was this person criticizing him having of a sip of brandy?
As if reading his mind, Nadir says, "Only drunkards partake of their habit on the street in full view of the world. I doubt your family would approve."
"My family approves of very little that I do," Raoul mumbles. "Who are you and why do care?"
"Nadir Khan. Opera lover, consultant to the magistrate of the 9th Arrondissement, busy body – as I have been told on numerous occasions. This just being one more. I find it difficult to keep my own counsel when I find myself in the presence of someone behaving in a manner not likely to serve them well."
"A policeman?"
Nadir chuckles at the choice the younger man made of his choices as to who he is. "Consultant – nothing official."
"You are not French."
"Persian. I was sheriff of Mazandaran," Nadir says. "The police are the police wherever you travel – the skills required do not change much."
"I suppose not," Raoul says, getting up from the cart. Putting his flask away, he brushes off his clothing. "I am trying to find Christine Daae…the young diva. Although there are some who seem to know who she is with. No one will tell me where she might be."
"Perhaps that is her wish."
"I doubt that very much. We were going to dinner, I went for my hat and when I returned, she was gone."
"Have you considered she did not wish to dine with you?"
Raoul's face goes pale, the flush of alcohol gone. "No, but we have not seen each other since we were children. There was much to discuss."
"Perhaps she had a previous engagement."
"That is what Madame Giry said, but I do not believe that. Christine would not simply have left like that."
"You have not seen her in years, by your own admission, how can you be certain how she might behave now?"
"She did protest…a bit, but I knew she would want to spend the evening with me."
"It would seem you were mistaken."
"I do not believe it."
"So you think sitting outside the Garnier in the alley drinking will bring her back?" Nadir smirks.
"I needed to think," Raoul says. "You say you are an investigator – perhaps you can help me."
"To do what, exactly?"
"I want to find her and the man who kidnapped her. I know she did not leave of her own accord without speaking to me."
"You might not like what you discover."
"What are you saying?"
"There is a saying in my country…it is best not to play with the tail of a lion."
"Is that a threat?"
"A warning, my friend, just a warning," Nadir says, taking his arm leading him to the street.
Raoul yanks his arm away. "I mean to find her."
"Go home. Sleep. Free yourself of the alcohol stupor you are in and think about what I have said."
"You know something."
"I know many things," Nadir smiles. "Now go home."