Chapter 18 — Lock and Key

As he picked the lock on the sturdy oak door to Nadir's office, Erik cursed himself — not for the first time, and assuredly not for the last — for ever letting that damned Daroga get involved in his affairs. Yes, perhaps instead he should have cursed himself for securing his music room below the opera with a lock which could not be picked without considerable effort and significant damage, but that lacked the same satisfaction.

Giving Nadir the key to the music room had felt like the right decision at the time, like turning over a billfold to a friend for safekeeping at the beginning of an evening out when one knows they can't be trusted not to overindulge once the first drink is poured. However, that was back when Erik's only thought was to avoid anything which might cause him to slip back into his wallowing, hindering his mission of assembling the pieces of his newly-founded life. That was hardly a worry now. His life was solidly built, there was no danger of slipping, and he certainly had no intention of wallowing. In fact, he'd never felt so completely in control of himself. He was calm, clear-headed, making all the right choices.

And he simply needed his damned key back.

No, breaking into Nadir's home office might not seem the best choice for a man who had turned his life around, but what else was he supposed to do, ask Nadir directly? Obviously not. Erik could hardly expect a man with such an unimaginative moral code to understand the complexities of the situation.

Besides, it hardly felt like breaking in. The two men were practically roommates.

When they had moved to Brussels, Nadir had balked at Erik's plan to hole himself up in some rented basement, far-flung from the city's crowds. They simply could not, Nadir had said, risk clients finding out that he lived in such an uninspired dwelling, causing them to doubt that the architect's level of taste was to be trusted.

"We shall stay in the city," Nadir had insisted.

"We?" Erik had asked, incredulous. "You want me to live with you?"

"Oh, certainly not!" Nadir had laughed. "Honestly, I can't think of a more miserable person to share a home with." And despite the heat rising up the back of his neck, Erik did not say a word in response...because Nadir wasn't really wrong, was he?

Between continued — and quite superfluous — chuckles, Nadir had gone on to explain that he had taken the liberty of finding them adjoining townhomes, separate enough to give Erik his cherished privacy, while being in a location most convenient for their business dealings. And if Erik wasn't pleased with the situation, it did not matter: the deal had already been done. It was a fact Erik might have been quite bitter about...had he not found his own way to make his peace with the situation.

Nadir, Erik had decided, was not the only one who could make decisions about their living arrangements without the other's knowledge.

A few late nights here and there, and he had completed a few modifications to the space which helped him feel much more at home. Today was the first time he'd used the passage he'd created between the two residences, however — it had always been a matter of having that secret knowledge more than any plan to use it — but now he had no choice. Desperate times and all that.

At last, a decisive click sounded within the brass lock and the door swung open. It had been some months since Erik had last been in Nadir's office, but not a thing had changed since then, nor was a thing out of place. Business ledgers, a stack of files, a wall of cabinets filled with uninteresting information; everything orderly and drab, with no ornamentation or hint of personality. Nadir said it was professional. Erik found it pedestrian.

Thankfully, Nadir's lack of imagination extended to hiding places. Erik couldn't help but scoff as he located the too-light book within moments; as if a false book on the highest bookshelf wouldn't be where anyone would look.

The key he had brought to swap out the original with wasn't a perfect match — the real key, now lying heavy in his inexplicably trembling palm, was a bit larger, the patina worn away in places, exposing the gleaming brass beneath — but it should work well enough as a decoy. It was critical that Nadir not suspect that anything was amiss.

The last thing Erik needed was to get another earful from Nadir about what a bad idea it was to get involved in this situation. What, did the fool think he didn't already know? Of course it was a bad idea. But when had Erik ever let the quality of an idea get in the way of acting upon it?

And it wasn't so black and white. Just because an idea was bad in conception didn't mean the execution couldn't lead to some good. The initial arrangement was ill-advised, yes, but things were very different now. What this was now was an arrangement that would benefit them both: Christine would get her voice back and Erik would get to spend time with her. It was simple. Nadir, however, would accuse Erik of meddling, of trying to steal Christine away, but that's not what was going on at all. He was only going to help her — no impropriety, no ulterior motives — and then leave her to her new life.

Erik snapped shut the cover of the false book and shoved it back into place. Really, none of this was any of his so-called friend's concern, and if Nadir had any sense, he should have learned by now not to attempt to insert himself into Erik's private business at all. Erik's secrets were his and his alone...particularly when those secrets concerned the truth of what had transpired — and more importantly what had not transpired — in the underground bedroom.

Obviously, no one would think that Christine would want him in that way — especially not when she was married to the boy whose name alone would make the ballet rats and chorus girls giggle and blush — least of all Erik himself. Still, the thought of seeing the knowing look in Nadir's eyes, the sympathy… No, no. He could never know.

And he never would.

All in all, Erik had been in and out in minutes flat. Now he stood on the sidewalk, with the key tucked securely in his pocket and a small valise packed with a few essentials in his hand. He would be on his way to the train station with plenty of time to catch the two o'clock train, and Nadir would not have the slightest idea that Erik had ever stepped foot in Brussels.

But there was one last thing to do first.

Certain that Nadir would not be home until 6:15, on the dot — the man was nothing if not predictable — without a second thought, Erik stepped boldly up to his partner's front door and withdrew an envelope from his pocket, pointedly ignoring the golden letters winking from their business' shingle overhead.

He supposed he should feel bad about neglecting his work, but his part was largely done; anything else he was needed for he could handle easily from afar. And it wouldn't be for long. He may have told Christine that they could revisit the arrangement, but clearly, they both knew those were empty words, which meant that this affair would almost certainly be concluded within the month. Then things would return to normal.

And frankly, Nadir could be as upset as he wanted about Erik's absence for all he cared. He would be long gone by the time his business partner found the letter — a few brief, circumspect lines which would explain his absence without admitting the truth — which he was now preparing to slip through the mail slot. Perhaps it was inconsiderate to not tell Nadir in person, but he didn't think he could bear hearing the judgmental, sharp-toned way Nadir would say—

"Erik!"

The hand holding the letter jumped, sending the envelope fluttering to the ground. Erik swung around to see Nadir walking down the sidewalk, a hand raised in greeting, a broad smile across his face. Tucked under his other arm was a familiar bakery bag and a bottle of wine. "I've been wondering what had become of you," he laughed. "I'd have never guessed you'd abandoned your job to work as a mail carrier!"

Erik snatched up the letter, the paper crumpling in his too-strong grip, and tried not to scowl. "What are you doing here?" he asked, a touch too harshly.

Nadir came to a sudden stop at the bottom of the steps, frowning. "I might ask you the same," he said, after a pause. "When did you get back?"

"I'm not, actually. I've just stopped in to collect a few things. Why aren't you at the job site?"

"The brick delivery was delayed and we're all caught up on everything else, so I had the crew take the afternoon off. I've decided to enjoy my free time for once," Nadir said, gesturing to bag and bottle. He raised an eyebrow. "If I wasn't so accustomed to your poor social skills, I might think you weren't happy to see me."

"I'm simply in a hurry, I have a train to catch," Erik said with a tense little shrug. "I have some business out of town which will keep me away for a few weeks."

"A few weeks! What business do you have outside of Brussels?"

Erik's fingers tightened around the handle of his valise. "No business of yours, Daroga."

Nadir frowned. "You have business here, Erik."

"Which is exactly why I am so fortunate to have such a competent business partner," Erik replied smoothly. "I feel completely at ease leaving everything in your capable hands. I was leaving you this letter to explain, actually, but there's no need now," he said, jamming the crumpled envelope into a pocket. He paused, then added in a clipped tone, "If you must, you can reach me through Giry."

"Giry?" Nadir's eyes narrowed. Unfortunately, the shortness of Erik's tone had done nothing to dissuade the old chief of police from continuing his interrogation. "Am I to assume, then, that this 'business' brings you to Paris?"

"You can assume all you like, Daroga," said Erik coolly. "You always have."

Nadir stared back silently, all softness and warmth gone from his face. Erik was familiar with this look: a hardened look of patient, unbending authority, a look which wordlessly told its recipient that to attempt to withhold the truth would only be a waste of time. It was a look which might work on petty thieves in Persia or on Belgian vendors who tried to cheat on their bills, but it had never worked on Erik, and it certainly wouldn't work now.

But then again, perhaps the truth was exactly what was needed...

"No," Erik sighed, "the business is not attempting to impregnate Mademoiselle Daaé—"

"You mean Madame de Chagny," Nadir cut in sharply. "And really, Erik," he added, his nose wrinkling, "must you be so vulgar?"

"Whomever," Erik said, with a dismissive flick of his hand. "And I'm only speaking plainly. But don't think I don't know what you're trying to get at."

For several moments, Nadir squinted up at him, as Erik stared back impassively. At last, with a shake of his head, Nadir stepped back to provide a clear path to the sidewalk. "I wouldn't dare," he said curtly.

"Good," Erik replied. One by one, he descended the stone stairs with slow, deliberate steps until he reached the pavement. Head held high, he looked down his nose at the infuriating, interfering little man who nevertheless was the only real friend he had in the world. Erik narrowed his eyes at him; even friends needed to be reminded of their place. He turned his voice to ice. "Because you really shouldn't."

And with a sharp smile, he turned on his heel and strode off towards the train station, feeling much lighter and freer now that he had put Nadir and his irksome scrupulousness behind him.

...

The brass key turned in the lock with only the slightest resistance. A click, and the heavy door swung open smoothly with only a nudge from a tentative palm, as if it had been only days since it was last opened, not years. Within the room, however, a blanket of dust lay thick and soft as snowfall. Erik picked his way through teetering stacks of scores, raising swirling gray drifts with each step, to where his violin case leaned against the cloth-draped piano. He had quite a bit of cleaning to do.

But not just yet.

Back in the parlor, Erik wavered a moment, then sunk to his knees before the case, reverent hands hovering above the black leather, as if preparing to open a long-closed tomb. In a way, that wasn't far off. With the creak of unused hinges, the lid opened, revealing the cold, hollow shell of shaped and polished spruce, cradled in red velvet, still and stark and soulless — lifeless for so long, just as he had been.

It felt lighter than he remembered, unfamiliar, yet his hands molded to its gentle curves instinctively, the wood warming quickly beneath his hands. He withdrew the bow, rosined the horsehair, turned the pegs and plucked at the strings until they sang in tune, and then stood tall, bringing the violin to rest beneath his chin. He took a breath, catching the scent of wood polish, just barely detectable amid the musty scent of dust and damp paper, and drew the bow across the strings.

Sound, pure and clear and sweet, traveled from strings to ears to racing heart in the space of seconds. A few sweeps of his arm and notes began to fall from the violin, vibrating with energy, with life, sending the blood rushing through his veins until he was playing along to the rhythm of his pounding heart.

He knew he should stop — he'd only needed to give it a quick tuning — but like the shedding of a leaden cloak, the constant heaviness which he had not even realized until now had been resting upon him was lifting, and up and up he could feel his spirit rising, and it was light and joyful and glorious, yet at the same time it felt precarious, as if the height was too high, dangerously high, the wings which lifted him too flimsy — that if he didn't keep his feet planted firmly on the ground, there was no telling how high he might go and how broken he would be by inevitable fall back to earth.

The bow began to slip in his sweating grip. And yet he sawed at the strings faster and faster, and in the darkness behind his closed eyes, his head was full of nothing but music, music that was becoming near-painful in its beauty, and there were no thoughts, only the urgent need to keep pouring the music out of his head and heart and soul until he was transfigured into something transcendent, sublime and whole, and nothing at all like the monstrous, broken man he was.

He wasn't sure what caused him to finally open his eyes, but when he did, his gaze fell upon the mantelpiece clock, and at once, the air seized in his lungs. His hand stilled.

Hours had passed.

How could that be? He hadn't lost time like that in so long, not since…

Erik yanked the bow away from the strings and with shaking hands, he stuffed the violin back into its case, shutting it with a snap.

He collapsed upon the sofa, feeling boneless and slightly sick to his stomach.

How could he have forgotten?

Music was not to be taken lightly — it was a drug, just as Christine was a drug. He must keep both controlled, measured out in small doses.

He took a shaky breath. He had made a mistake, but there was no need to worry — as long as he didn't slip up again, as long as he kept himself under control, everything would be just fine.

Hello hello hellllo! This chapter got so long, it became two! So surprise! An extra chapter! Prepare for even more ERIK.