A/N: Thank you for all the wonderful reviews, faves, and interest! :) A friend honored my story by making a video of that moment when Christine sees Erik as he played the Devil's Trill - be sure and check it out on youtube, for a "you are there" experience! :) - search for: Devil's Trill / Christine & Erik - by Małgorzata Dawidowska (she has also made other cool E/C videos of scenes/chapters in this story and other ones I've written here (A Phantom's Blood & A Path Darkly Taken), so be sure to check out her channel...)
Okay, a lot happens in this chapter – get ready. Deep breath. And now….
Chapter XIX
.
The morning began like any other, nothing unique to set it off from the rest.
Christine woke to the dawn beaming through a crack between heavy, swagged curtains and slipped from her bed, having awakened in the dead of night to find herself alone in the sitting room and lying on the sofa, with his cloak to warm her. The terror of the nightmare behind her and barely a memory, she felt foolish for acting so infantile and had taken herself to bed, burrowing deep beneath the thick, down coverlet, Erik's gentle touch of hours ago the last she remembered before again surrendering to slumber.
She washed, she dressed, she combed out and pulled back her unruly curls with a black velvet ribbon. All routine tasks done with the start of each new dawn. Yet as she parted the damask drape and stared out the window at the waking city, she knew that something about this day was different, that nothing would ever be the same again.
Not one given to premonitions, she tried to shake off the troublesome feeling. She could not place the disquiet that stirred inside her soul, could find no apparent reason for its existence, but she sensed a pivotal change on the horizon…or perhaps, an event that had already transpired.
Gentle strains of music came from the adjoining room, from the piano this time, and she took a deep calming breath at the welcome interruption, before going to join her new husband and teacher.
He sat in profile to her, his posture as tall and elegant as ever, and though he faced the window, the heavy draperies had been closed against the dawning day. It made sense, she supposed, the large picture window facing east and the early morning sun blinding to the eyes. Twin candelabras had been lit so the room was not too dim, and the fire in the hearth crackled a merry greeting.
He turned his upper body on the bench to look at her, where she stood on the threshold of the sitting room.
"Good morning," she said, feeling somewhat awkward after last evening's foolish lapse into fear – and over nothing more than an illogical dream.
"Let us hope so," he replied and turned back to the piano, recommencing to play. "I trust you are feeling well enough for a lesson?"
"Yes, I would like that." She brought her hands together, clasping them in her skirts. "About last night, I want to say that I'm sorry…"
His hand briefly went up in a motion to stop her. "Christine, never again apologize to me. Not for anything you have done or ever will do in the future. I assure you, I have much more cause to regret my actions and seek absolution, if that were possible, than you ever will merit for any minor infraction you may have committed."
Regret? Did he regret his marriage to her…? His voice came somber, though without impatience, and she ducked her head and submissively nodded though he couldn't see her.
"There is tea on the table if you wish it and breakfast pastries, though I do not recommend indulging until after the lesson."
"Yes, alright." As he resumed the gentle melody, she moved to pour tea into a teacup, adding a slice of lemon from those provided in a bowl. She took several sips, grateful for its warmth washing through her body, before returning to stand beside him.
"Shall we begin?" He motioned to the bow of the piano, where she obediently went to stand.
After he took her through scales and warm-ups, they barely made a dent into the lesson, when he abruptly ceased to play, his gaze remaining on his poised hands fixed to the keys.
"It is beyond my knowledge how you could have grown up at the Opera House, and yet no instructor there taught you the correct way to stand when you sing." He looked up at her then, his eyes golden points of accusation.
"In the chorus, we move as we sing – we dance," she said in her defense. "I cannot recall ever simply standing while I sang on stage, always as part of a group; so no, no one taught me."
"Such mediocrity is unacceptable," he told her, his words softer yet just as stern. "You must first learn the proper technique while standing immobile, and later incorporate that technique into the dance. I assume you have seen a marionette in use?"
At the odd question that came from nowhere, she nodded.
"Strings hold the head upright and arms in place. I want you to imagine that such strings run from the top of your head and shoulders, pulling ever upward…yes, exactly that. Now sing."
He played a little longer this time, carrying her through the stanza, but upon the held note, he again ceased to play. And she ceased to sing.
"No, that's not right," he said, rising from his bench. "Carry the note. Again."
She let the sound pour from her lips and watched in confusion as he advanced, only to slip behind her. A dizzying rush of warmth swept through her veins at his nearness, though his lean body never once made contact with any part of her form. He brought his hand forward with fingers extended a bare fraction from her skirts, slightly angling it as he slowly lifted his hand along the periphery of her form, following its shape, never once touching. And though he must have whispered near her ear, she heard the words as though they came from inside her head -
"Let the note come from your belly and flow upward, like a fountain…"
The air between his hand and her body felt charged, electric. She could feel his movement, a slight stir, a waft of pressure, with the gradual sweep of his ever-ascending hand, as though he touched her…
And she wished, how she wished that he would!
She continued to carry the high note, letting it soar and nearly swaying with need as his open hand smoothed a graceful arc over the scant bit of air that curved along the top of her breasts and collarbone, enough to feel the welcome trickle of cold emanate from his hand against her bare skin, the fine hairs unseen to the eye rising vainly to meet him.
Flesh meeting flesh – oh, how she wanted what he would no longer grant!
To nearly be touched was as riveting and evocative an experience as to feel the soft caress of his chill hands upon her, the hazy memory of what she once believed a dream burning clear in her mind like a brand.
Her limbs trembled, her very bones felt liquefied. Unable to remain steady as his fingers clenched into a euphoric fist, meeting and ascending near her throat and rising above her head, her sustained breath came near its end, and she rocked back on her heels, her shoulder blades brushing his chest. She felt his muscles jump and tighten against her back but he did not move away, and as she let the note die a soft death, she leaned her head back ever so slightly, until it rested against the breadth of his shoulder.
For a breathless measure of time, they stood like that, a living statue barely touching, the air thrumming in the silence around them.
And then the moment was shattered as he dropped his hand back down to his side and retreated a step, slowly, so that she would not fall and could regain her balance.
"Did you notice the difference?" he asked, his deep voice slightly hoarse, and she sensed he had likewise been affected. But whereas he had a voice, she could find no breath to answer.
As he returned to the bench and the keyboard, she longed to ask what had changed between them that he no longer took the initiative, as he had done in her bedchamber on the night that seemed as if it belonged to another era, after the ball. As he had done at the festival and in the forest. She wanted his touch, yearned for it with every beat of her heart, and that stunned her into remaining silent and giving only a nod to his abrupt question when he again turned his eyes upon her in expectation.
Somehow she found a voice to sing and the lesson resumed, absent of any further contact, near-physical or otherwise. Once complete, she counted the tutorial short but successful. Before she could inquire what they might do next, perhaps suggest a carriage drive through the city, he made his excuses that he had business to attend and reached for his cloak and hat.
She watched, a bit stunned by his swift retreat, but before he could exit through the door, she called to him, "Will you be back in time to share supper with me?"
He halted, his shoulders stiffening, but did not turn to look at her. "If you wish it," he said after a brief hesitation and strode out the door before she could offer acknowledgement or gratitude.
Well then...
She puzzled over this new brand of taciturn behavior toward her but did not dwell on it, lest she drive herself to drink. And with three decanters of spirits in the suite, there was plenty to be had.
With an extensive amount of time on her hands and nothing to do to pass the hours but delve further into what was left of the dubious adventures of Heinrik Van Helsing, Christine grabbed an iced pastry with pecan filling and reluctantly picked up the journal from the floor where she had dropped it. Nibbling at the treat, she took up where she had left off, reading the small remainder of yellowed pages until its conclusion, but coming nowhere nearer to accepting Raoul's belief in otherworldly monstrosities of the night.
Did he truly think this would change her mind?
Rising from the sofa, she brushed tiny bits of icing from her hands and moved to the bay window, pulling aside the heavy drape. She looked out over the bustling city, the summit of the Opera House catching her eye, its golden statues there reflecting a brilliant flash of the sun's rays and seeming to beckon her return.
Recalling her promise to Meg to visit, she considered the present to be perfectly acceptable and hurried to fetch cloak, scarf and gloves. The weather had dipped in temperature overnight; she had felt the extreme chill through the damp pane. Snow did not usually fall until later in the season, but it wasn't entirely unheard of for it to happen this close to the Yuletide. Visions of sleigh rides bundled up next to Erik were perhaps a foolish fancy, too absurd to seriously consider. Still, she could scarce believe that the festive end of the year was almost upon them, a matter of a fortnight away, and she looked forward to decorating the castle.
And she could scarce believe that she had become another year older but more importantly, she hoped, a great deal wiser…
Intending to walk the few blocks in the crisp air of early afternoon, she presumed it was nearing the close of rehearsal and hoped to time her arrival to share luncheon with Meg.
After rattling down in the moving chamber to the lobby she gratefully escaped the metal conveyance, once the boy drew the cage door back, and approached the exit doors.
"My lady," she heard from behind but did not slow her pace.
"Countess cel Tradat, please, one moment!"
Realizing with a start that the concierge addressed her and wondering if she would ever grow accustomed to hearing herself called by that title, Christine turned and gave him an inquisitive smile.
A bespectacled man with a thick paunch and rather large waxed mustache that curled at the ends and extended past his cheeks, he gave her a polite nod of greeting.
"If you wish to visit the city, I will order a carriage for you."
"Thank you, but that's not necessary," she declined. "I'm only going to the Opera House."
"The Count specifically ordered that if you leave the hotel, I was to order a carriage to take you where you wished to go."
"But – that's silly," she tried again. "It's only a few blocks away and the sun is out."
"His note was very insistent," the man said, and she saw a hint of dread in his pale-colored eyes, as if nervous she might refuse the privilege. "Please, do reconsider."
Had the Count penned him a note containing a threat if he failed to carry out his instructions? It seemed farfetched, but she did not wish to cause the concierge to have heart palpitations, and she could see by his reddened face and altered breathing he was fast approaching the possibility.
"Oh, very well," she sighed. "Arrange for a carriage then."
"There is a carriage waiting outside," he assured with visible relief, opening the door for her and abruptly motioning to the driver who sat atop the nearby conveyance. To Christine's surprise she saw two additional horse and carriages standing alongside the wide street behind the one to which she was led, their drivers also at the ready, obviously in wait for whatever guest had need of transport. No doubt an amenity offered by the hotel.
The driver quickly jumped down from his high seat and offered Christine assistance into the carriage. Within minutes, he delivered her to the front of the Opera House, stating he would wait for her return. Uncertain how she felt about what she deemed unnecessary attention, she offered a tepid smile and entered what had been her home for over a decade.
The stalwart doorman recognized her by the lift of his brows, and though he did not ask why she'd not entered by way of the back entrance for thespians' use, he clearly thought it. Evidently, word of her change in status had not yet spread throughout the theatre, for which she was glad. She did not want to have to deal with curious stares or countless questions from every member of crew and chorus. Perhaps it would be different if the Count had married her for love; then she would delight in having news of her nuptials spread far and wide and wouldn't mind the attention so much. Yet, though he professed that he would never abandon her and had extended toward her the surety of his protection, Erik clearly wanted little to do with her as a companion. Besides the lessons, of course. At least she did have that.
She arrived earlier than planned had she walked the three blocks, and music from within the theater told her that rehearsal was still underway. A peek inside the door that stood ajar showed her the chorus enacting a ballet from what she presumed by the costumes to be a repeated production of La nuit de Noël, ou L'anniversair, a comedic opera set on Christmas Eve. She spotted Meg immediately in the midst of a graceful pirouette followed by an effortless plié. Deciding to walk around to the rear of the building and stand in the wings to watch, rather than move through the auditorium door and take a seat in one of the darkened theatre's many rows, Christine took a corridor that twisted and led backstage.
As she walked by Madame Giry's office, she heard a man's raised voice beyond the closed door and stopped in curious shock.
That voice, she would know it anywhere. But - what on earth was the Count doing here? Not to mention it was quite unusual that Madame wasn't overseeing the rehearsal...
Christine recalled Erik's new and surprising patronage at the theatre and decided his presence must have something to do with that and her former ballet teacher was somehow involved. Before she could bring herself to walk away, she heard Madame Giry say her name.
They were discussing her?
Knowing she should not listen in, Christine couldn't help herself, puzzled as to why she would be their topic of conversation. She pressed her ear to the door near the crack, their voices now louder but still a bit muffled, though she could make out most of what was spoken.
"My reasons do not concern you," her husband said, ice frosting his words.
"Pardon, Monsieur, but they do. She is to me like a daughter. Why, after all this time, have you sought her out? Then, I said nothing. Your time with Christine changed her and helped her in her great time of sorrow. But you left without word and destroyed what little you had mended in her young heart."
Christine gasped, bringing fingers that slightly trembled to lips that had parted in shock.
"I repeat, Madame, I will not give account for my actions! You have been my aide in past years, and for that I am grateful. But I owe you no explanation."
Their voices grew muffled again, softer, but she doubted she could make sense of them if they shouted the words in her face. Her mind was a fog of whirling uncertainty in the midst of such troubling revelations. Silently she questioned if what she'd heard truly meant what she thought, or if somehow she had misunderstood…
Not wishing to be caught lingering at the threshold, she turned aside, too upset to give any thought to a quiet escape. Her steps were swift, almost at a run, and thudded against the wooden floor. She sought familiar corridors to the quiet chamber where she had always gone to find respite…to find an angel.
Slowly she paced the flagstones between each stand of memorial candelabrum, wringing gloved hands at her waist, now and then darting a troubled glance to the large window of stained glass and the angel frozen in hues of blue and green that looked down on her from above.
All along, in her womanhood, she had known her Angel of Music was no true celestial being as the child she had been once thought. He was only a man who engaged in a masquerade…a cruel and hurtful masquerade.
A step on the stones alerted her to a new presence. The air itself seemed to shift in nervous expectation, and before she turned, she knew who had joined her.
The Count's considerable height and breadth of shoulder filled the opening where he observed her. He stood, a cloaked black shadow, outlined in firelight that glowed from behind and rimmed the arched entryway. Detached, calm, silent. Yet the look in golden eyes that caught the flames of a nearby brazier and made them burn brighter was anything but nonchalant.
"I thought I would find you here," he said quietly.
"Why?" The hurt and confusion of her discovery propelled her words. "Why here. Of all the many chambers in this vast theatre, why did you think to find me here?"
"You spoke of fond memories in visiting this place, of how special it was to you…"
"Of finding my angel inside?" she added with a determined lift of her chin.
He said nothing, and that only raised her vexation another notch.
"And have I, Erik?" She stepped close to him, glaring up into his eyes beyond the mask. "Have I found my angel?" she gave a bitter twist to the words that he could not miss.
His eyes narrowed. "We should return to the hotel. This is not the time or the place for this discussion. Come."
He moved to grab her arm, but she wrested it from his grasp and took a step back the instant his fingers put pressure to her sleeve.
"I disagree. This is the perfect place to speak of such things – the place where it all began. Over there…" She jabbed a finger toward the memorial stand by the stained glass window. "A little girl knelt and prayed for an angel to come, and he did. And over there…" She brushed at her lashes and the wretched tears that had risen to film her eyes. "A little girl waited and waited and begged for that same angel to come – and he never did!"
"Christine, calm yourself," he said with rising impatience.
She was acting hysterical, she knew it, she hated it, but she couldn't help herself.
"Will you at least admit the truth? Will you admit that what I overheard you and Madame Giry discussing is what I believe it to be? Will you just say the wretched words – and then for God's sake, please explain to me why?"
"You should not have eavesdropped. Your curious nature could put you in peril one day. I have no wish to see that happen."
"Is that all you have to say to me?"
The silence thickened like a suffocating blanket as Christine waited in vain for him to respond and satisfy her need to know, her need to hear it. To her chagrin, the soft scuffle of footsteps approached, and Meg appeared through the archway in her shimmering, ice-blue bodice, tutu and slippers.
"Oh! Excusez-moi, I thought…" She looked visibly shaken to see the masked Count there, then quickly turned her eyes toward Christine. "Jammes said she saw you in the corridor and that you seemed upset. I thought you might have come here. Is everything alright?"
"I will give you ladies some privacy." The Count gave a quick, curt nod and slipped out the door, like a shadow escaping the sun.
Christine took an immediate step after him, but Meg grabbed her shoulder, causing Christine to turn impatiently in question.
"I don't know what's going on between you two, and maybe I have no right to stick my nose in where it's unwanted, but perhaps you should give yourselves both time to calm down, mon ami. Nothing that needs to be said cannot wait." Meg regarded her with an apologetic smile. "I have to get back on stage – Maman has me doing extra practice for the day I missed. I just wanted to make sure you were alright. But if you need to talk, I can stay," she amended, peering more closely at Christine's strained features.
Meg had been her sole confidant in their youth, on up through the time Christine left for Montmarte; and though it would certainly release a burden to speak of what she was now sure could be labeled as Erik's wretched deceit, some strain of undeserved loyalty held her back.
"I'm fine, Meg," she said more calmly. "We will talk again. Go. You don't want your mother to come searching for you. She might add on additional practices."
Meg scrunched her nose in agreement, and with a last squeeze to Christine's arm, she hurried away.
No more than a minute had elapsed since her devious bridegroom swept out of the chapel, and Christine braced her shoulders with every intention of catching up to him and finishing what was started.
x
Flummoxed, she stood in the end of the empty corridor, uncertain where to go next.
She had taken the steps that wound up from the chapel and searched the long corridor running alongside it, peeking into its chambers, but could find Erik nowhere. How could he just disappear seemingly into thin air? And yet, she thought with a wry twist of her lips, how often had he done just that!
Feeling she had nothing to lose in the attempt, she took a nearby exit outside near the back of the theatre. An alleyway stood between her and the street that led to their hotel, and her heart gave a triumphant leap when, in the shadowed distance, she spotted a cloaked figure in retreat.
"Erik!" she called out, but the man continued walking as if he did not hear her.
Or perhaps he did.
Recalling their altercation at the forest's edge and how he had tried to escape her then, she tamped down any residual temper and decided to go after him.
She brushed off the unrest that nipped at her heels once she left the minimal warmth of winter sunlight and hurried into the cold, dark alley. The sloping roofs overhung on opposite sides, almost touching, so that little daylight could slip through, the back walls of these close buildings high enough that the sun on its evening decline could not reach within.
She came within several feet of him. And in the instant when she realized she'd erred – this man wasn't tall enough to be her husband – he turned.
"Well, well, what have we here?"
His accent was similar to the Count's though certainly this man's voice couldn't hold a candle to the beauty that was Erik's. Like Erik, she presumed him to be in his late twenties or early thirties, with similar hair that shone black as a raven's wing. But rather than the mesmerizing gold of her husband's eyes, this stranger had orbs of soulless black.
"A mistake," she said, backing up a step. "Pardon. I thought you were someone else."
"I do not believe in mistakes," he countered, sizing her up and down like a feral wolf to a cornered lamb. "Now then, do not be afraid, my pretty mademoiselle…"
As he spoke, her gloved hand scrambled beneath her cloak for the dagger in her reticule.
"It will all be over soon," he continued, his voice lowering to a raspy growl, his piercing eyes intent on hers.
Another baited few seconds and he lunged. Immediately she sidestepped and twisted fully around so that she was behind him, a response she gave no thought to; but the astonishment at her swiftness and dexterity was mirrored in his dark eyes as he turned them her way. She withdrew the cloth-wrapped weapon from inside her cloak.
He barked out a laugh. "What do you intend to do with that? Will you shed tears of fright and beg for my mercy?"
"No," she said, willing her voice not to tremble. "I have something better in mind."
Whipping off the large napkin, she held aloft her blade as Raoul had taught, willing her hand not to shake. For once, she blessed his persistence to train her.
Her attacker appeared dissuaded for a brief few seconds, but the return of his lecherous grin made her stomach bunch in knots. He had a hungry look in those evil eyes that appalled her. She circled back to her original spot, hoping to flee to the Opera House at first opportunity. He followed her steps, circling toward her, each step bringing him a little closer.
"And you think to harm me with that toy?"
"If you attempt to touch me, I mean to try."
A scuff of a shoe sounded to her left. Backing up from the known danger another few steps, she hastily turned her head to survey the unknown threat. A boy stood near, having just stepped out from an open door, behind which the room lay in darkness. He was thin and gangly, perhaps thirteen, the look in his eyes one of despair and not harm.
"Boy," she said to him, "Go - run for help!"
Frozen in place, he glanced from her to the man in nervous terror, and Christine sensed a familiarity in that look. Did the child know this beast?
Out of the corner of her eye, a blur of shadow swiftly advanced. With no thought to hesitation, she swung her blade in an upward arc, making contact with his forearm he no doubt had raised to grab her. The fiend let out an unholy yell, grabbing his wounded appendage close and staring at it then her in befuddled anger.
"Who the devil are you?" he hissed.
Christine trembled and blinked the last errant tears from her eyes, sure their moisture was what made it appear as if tendrils of steam wafted up from where the blade had made contact with his sleeve. That or the freezing cold caused the vaporous smoke; there could be no other explanation.
Before she could form a response, a voice called out from behind.
"Let her go."
A strange thing to say, in light of the present scene, Christine the one holding the dagger aloft, with her attacker keeping distance between them and holding his wounded arm. Yet she was grateful to hear that dark velvet voice and know that Erik had arrived to put an end to this madness.
"Ah," the scoundrel said. "Good of you to join us."
She felt the Count brush up behind and rest a light hand against her shoulder. "Take the carriage that awaits and return to our temporary abode," he instructed, his voice low. "Go now. I will meet you there."
Christine wavered, wishing he would come with her, but when she turned to ask it, she caught the fire blazing in his eyes and felt assured that he could take care of himself.
"Oh, but don't send her away," the fiend hissed. "Let her join in the fun. Let us make it a - what is it you French call it? A ménage à trois?"
Christine hurriedly retraced her steps to the theatre. Once assured she was out of earshot, Erik turned eyes of pure hatred upon his nemesis.
"What the devil do you want?" he growled. "Why are you here?"
"You know what I want," Nicolae replied. "Your kingdom, your throne – which by all rights should be mine!"
The Count huffed out a breath of annoyance at the churl's claim, which had grown stale he'd heard it so often. Though both were the eldest of their kind and evenly matched in wit and skills, Erik had one advantage, and well his enemy knew it.
"Leave Paris, Nicolae. Never return. You are not welcome here."
"What is the woman to you?" the fool had the audacity to ponder. "A pet to warm the scarred carcass of the beast? I did not smell death on her and she wielded silver, so you have not yet turned the wench, though doubtless you will. And doubtless you will end her when she becomes of no use to you, as you did with Daria!"
Behind the mask, Erik winced at the reminder of the girl but outwardly maintained his rigid stance.
"Leave now, Nicolae!"
"I have no interest in sojourning in such a city. I have come only to tell you that this is not over between us, Erik son of Florin. I will take from you all that is yours, I will destroy all that you hold dear – and I, Nicolae Lupei, shall rule the darkness and come out the victor!"
He disappeared in the next breath, to whatever wretched home he had claimed, and Erik was hard-pressed not to take his ire out on the boy.
"What are you still doing here?" he clipped, turning swiftly on his heel to confront him. "Did I not tell you to leave Paris with all haste and go to Berwickshire?"
Archer jumped up from where he had crouched and snatched something off the ground.
"I could not, Sire. The train that would take me there leaves only by day."
The Count cursed his rare forgetfulness. "Come to my suite at the Grand Hotel once it is dark. The top floor. Room 501. Do not tarry."
With that he turned on his heel and left the boy, anticipating the meeting with Christine, to see that she was safe and truly unharmed, while dreading what would come of it. Her damnable curiosity and penchant to uncover the truth was a bane to his existence at the moment, bringing him to an encounter he had hoped never to face.
Yet if questions must come, he would prefer them to be about what she eavesdropped to overhear and not about what they had just encountered.
There was no doubt in his mind that had she not been a slayer, he would have arrived to a far different scene minutes ago, one grotesque and deplorable. And though she did not yet understand the depth of her innate skills and he hoped she never would, this one time he was grateful for their existence.
xXx
Once Christine alighted from the carriage, she shunned the ascending chamber, having no desire to be entrapped in a cage at the moment, and hurriedly took the staircase of the hotel up to the top floor. She swept past Suite 502, the only other apparent room on this level, an oddity she previously never stopped to consider, for certainly the hotel contained more than two rooms per floor.
A shaky breath of relief escaped her lungs once the door was shut firmly behind her. She turned the lock and removed the brass key, aware Erik had a duplicate. Only when she dropped the key into her reticule did she withdraw the dagger from where she haphazardly stuffed it as she fled the alley, noting with dismay that it had sliced the fragile silk lining.
She stared with disgust at the blade of pure silver edged in dried reddish-brown matter. She had drawn blood, more than a little, and the knowledge still shook her. No matter that the fiend deserved it for his vicious attempt to despoil her – that she had actually cut into human flesh made her feel woozy, and she clutched the edge of the table, placing the dagger far from her on a tray.
She walked to the table that held libations and uncapped the brandy decanter, pouring out an unhealthy, much-needed dose, the tremble of her hand causing the lip of the bottle to clink against the glass repeatedly. She took a hard swallow, setting nose, tongue, and throat aflame, and pressed her fingers to her lips, barely managing to stifle a cough.
Her hand still unsteady, she capped the crystal bottle and took her drink with her to the sofa, perching on a cushion and staring at the door to await his return.
Her mind was her incessant torturer. By the time she heard the key scrape inside the lock and Erik entered the room, she was again a tightly wound bundle of coils ready to come unsprung at the faintest jolt to her senses.
He locked the door behind him and silently approached, eyeing her head to hem and what was left of the brandy she clasped tightly in both hands.
"Are you unharmed?" he inquired at last.
An odd choice of words when she felt her soul lay bleeding.
"That man – he seemed to know you," she said little above a whisper.
His response came with some hesitation. "We have met before." He looked her over again, arriving to the conclusion that she was unscathed, and sharpened his words in rebuke. "What I want to know is why you were walking in a dark alley, when a carriage was ready and waiting for you?"
"I was looking for you," she defended, "to finish our conversation. As I still wish."
"Must we go over this again," he said wearily, moving to the liquor table to pour his own glass.
"Why will you not just say it?"
Briefly, he closed his eyes in a vain attempt to block her out and took a swig of brandy.
"Very well, then I will say the words for you. Are you, in fact, the one who called himself my Angel of Music?"
He said nothing but turned his eyes to stare at her, the golden orbs holding a warning she would not heed.
"Tell me!"
"You have said it."
Christine fidgeted in dissatisfaction. But - what did that mean?! Were those curt words his confession? Or after all that had happened, was he only patronizing her in her near hysteria with what he thought she wanted to hear?
"Did you know, that for these last two months," she began, forcing syllables past the tremor of her lips, "ever since I met Lucy, I have wondered if perhaps I might have inherited the family madness – worried that I only dreamed up an Angel that didn't exist? And still you make me wonder..."
He frowned, his manner pensive, then set down his glass and strode to the piano with purpose to sit upon its bench, putting his back to her.
Her mouth dropped open to be so curtly dismissed and rudely ignored. In the next instant offense evaporated, leaving her bruised heart saturated in ripples of shock. She inhaled a trembling gasp as his agile fingers began to stroke keys in an old but familiar tune that rang from the grand piano's small metal hammers.
Médée … the obscure opera of a century past that only her Angel had known and taught her.
Her eyes fell shut with the knowledge, as the weight of his unspoken revelation truly soaked in.
When she felt that her legs would again support her, she set down her glass and rose from the sofa, slowly approaching to stand in the bow of the piano. She watched his skilled hands move in graceful sweeps to create beautiful chords, and when at last they came to a pause, she softly uttered one word.
"Why...?"
His hands froze in midair. He clenched then unclenched his fingers over the keys but did not press down to make further sound, at last closing them into fists one last time and drawing them to his lap.
"Did my voice disgust you so greatly?"
"Had that been the case, I would never have taught you to sing."
Her heart thundered within her breast to hear his low admission, this, the first true vocal response that securely cast him into the role of her Angel.
"You left me without a word," she whispered, hating the persistent tears that rose up to clog her throat and make it difficult to speak.
"I had no choice. The decision to leave Paris was taken from me. It had nothing to do with you."
"Can you not tell me what –?"
"No."
She brushed away a tear before it could strike her cheek.
"Meg said you must be a disturbed soul to haunt a little girl."
His mouth twisted in a wry grin that was anything but humorous. Still, he did not look at her.
"Did you ever once think of me?" the empty spot in her heart that he had hollowed out wanted to know. "Did you ever once miss me or wonder what had happened to me?"
Her quiet, faltering words sounded more as if they came from the orphaned waif he had left behind, and his heart twisted at the plea there; an oddity for an organ long dead.
"You were but a child," he kept his tone mild and unaffected, a mask to the strange ache that formed inside his chest. Unfurling his fingers, he again brought them to rest on the keys and softly played the stanza of a lullaby, hoping to bring peace where he had cultivated unrest. "I reasoned that you would soon forget that time in your young life."
"Well, I didn't," she snapped, her tongue thick with tears.
Nor had he.
He tried, by the blood of his ancestors, he had tried. It was essential, given the monster he was. Immortality had its drawbacks. In order to exist and remain sane, he could not afford to dwell on fond attachments that had been necessary to abandon, while living year after year, century upon century on the earth. Though such attachments were rare and scant few had touched whatever soul he could yet claim, as his Little Lotte had done. He did not tell her that especially in those first years after they parted, when memories were still strong enough to inflict pain, how the recollection of her sweet, angel's voice had both aided and distressed him at the darkest of times, while he hid within his habitual pit of loneliness and despair.
No, he did not tell her that. Nor did he offer a reply to her tearful confession.
She sniffed, her actions jerky as she smoothed her hands down her skirt.
"If you will excuse me, my lord Count, I seem to have contracted a headache."
He did not miss the sarcastic bent to her quiet words, calling him by a title he told her never again to use, and sensed more than saw her hasten to her room and shut the door with a little more force than was necessary.
Only then did his fingers fall heavily to the keys in a staccato of strident chords, before he dropped his head into his hands in frustrated dismay.
He did not tell her any of it…
If only he could.
xXx
A/N: Things look pretty bleak and miserable for our lovesick pair… Will Christine forgive him for the deception? Will Erik unbend enough to satisfy her needs? And what of the darker problems that plague them? Stay tuned to find out... ;-)
