Two Weeks – Chapter 28
The soft rumbling noise in her ear brings a smile to Christine's lips. Without opening her eyes, she strokes the soft fur of the kitty nestled across her neck, moving her gentle aside. "I fear I cannot breathe with you lying as you are little one."
Isis responds with several licks on Christine's cheek before jumping down to the floor.
"Do not go," Christine pleads, slipping her hand out from under the Afghan blanket reaching for the cat. "I only wanted you to move a bit."
Instead of complying Isis begins meowing.
"Are you hungry? I admit I did forget about you when I came home." Christine opens her eyes to see the amber eyes, gleaming in the dim light of the electric lamp, sitting unmoving close to her head, staring at her. "Very well," she says, throwing her legs off the chaise. "I believe there are some dried fish pieces in the larder. We must be quiet so as not to disturb your papa."
The cat lets out a loud yowl and runs toward the hallway, stopping to look back.
Suddenly alarmed, she sits up, throwing an arm over the back of the red velvet chaise. Rubbing her eyes, attempting to fully shake off the sleep interrupted too soon, she asks "Is there something wrong with Erik?"
With one last cry, the black and white cat disappears into the darkness.
All too aware of her state of undress, the pale pink silk chemise and pantalets are twisted around her body, leaving her feeling her exposed in sitting room. Blushing furiously at the possibility of Erik finding her thus, she contemplates putting on the clothing only recently removed and discarded on Erik's leather wingback chair and frowns.
Since he is in her room, where all her other clothes are…if he has not packed them all…"Oh, Erik, whatever were you thinking?" Pulling the blanket around her, she mutters, "At least I am covered."
Not bothering to put on her shoes, the floors carpeted in plush Aubusson rugs – as she learned they were called were kinder to her feet than the stylish, yet uncomfortable boots he purchased for outdoor wear. When home, here in the apartment, she often went barefoot. Much to his chagrin she believes, if his comments are anything to go on.
"Whatever happened to your feet?" he exclaimed when she took off the pumps she wore when he brought her down here.
"You mean my toes?"
"Yes, your toes. They are…they are deformed."
"Yes, they are," she said with a sigh, looking down and wiggling the offensive appendages.
"Were they always so?"
"No. Even after years of walking from place to place with perfectly fine feet, if tired at times, it was learning to dance on my toes ruined them," she sighs. "I can only imagine what Madame Giry's feet look like since she needs a cane to walk."
"Are all the dancers feet so…ug…unattractive?"
"Ugly is the word you are seeking," she laughed lightly. "Yes, some worse than others."
"Hmmph."
The retort she suspected was one of thoughtfulness, but also a kind of recognition he might not be the only person in the world who suffered from twists of fate or birth.
Whenever she does not wear her satin brocade slippers…made to match the deep blue dressing gown she wore for breakfast or in the evening before retiring – she observes him trying not to look at her poor, mangled toes. Although repulsed, he is also strangely fascinated by them.
"Do they hurt?"
"Does what hurt?" There were very few opportunities to best her mentor – that her own deformity would enable her to have some fun never failed to please her.
Wiggling his fingers at the floor was his response.
"My feet?"
"Yes, your feet. Is there something else bothering you?" he added quickly. "I should not wish you to be ailing in some way."
"No, I am fine."
"So, what about them?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You are rubbing them."
"I often rub them."
"So, do they hurt?"
"Now?"
"Of course now?"
"Not very much – the massage feels good is all."
"But they still hurt you?"
"They trouble me less now since I am no longer dancing…but, yes, they hurt if I stand or walk too long."
"Perhaps soaking them in hot water with some healing salts would help."
"I suspect that would feel quite nice indeed."
Almost before she could complete her reply, he was on his feet rushing to the kitchen. After several minutes, he returned with some towels and a pan of water. Laying first one towel on the floor in front her before setting the pan on top of it.
"There," he said, "now soak your poor feet. We must have you fitted for better footwear, then."
"You have already bought me so many clothes…and shoes."
"I will not have you in pain," he said, waving off her objections. "Now soak."
Despite the best efforts of the cobbler, however, walking too far or standing for too long continue to bother her. Going barefoot on the luscious wool remains her preferred way of padding about the apartment despite an odd look every so often from Erik, which always brought a smile to her face.
This evening, though, the poor man was so distressed, she hopes he is still asleep. While his mask is always present, she finds herself no longer put off by his face being covered. There are still problems with understanding the meaning of his words, not being able to see the expression on his face. Moments when he is having fun with her but since the barbee masks cover his mouth, any sort of smirk or smile turning his lips is hidden from view.
Most of the time she can sense his expression from his eyes, and yet, misunderstandings pop up with the attendant hurt feelings and apologies coming from both of them. Nevertheless, each time she tells him he can go without one, he refuses. Even tonight, he preferred having a towel over his head rather that have her see his face.
Were she not so concerned over his injury she might have found the entire scene comical. However, he was so much like a little boy when she was taking care of him – especially when she was stitching the wound. Turning his head away she could feel him tensing up so as not to cry out. It was all she could do not to hug him and tell him it was alright to cry.
Besides the upheaval she found when entering first her room, then the bathroom, seeing how he hurt himself and how wretched he must be feeling, perhaps the biggest shock came when she removed his coat and shirt. The other scars – so many of them. What must the rest of his body look like if his arms and neck were covered with a map of rivers and streams of raised of flesh – some areas seeming to be scarred over two or three times.
The urge to run her fingers over them was strong, even knowing any physical pain was gone, she did not know how he might react to such an intimate act. Instinctively she knew touching him beyond the treatment of this present injury would more than either of them might be able to deal with at the moment. The cut on his hand was her priority, and even then he did not want her to treat that. What had he suffered?
Pushing the slightly ajar door open, she peeks into the room. When she does not see him lying on the bed, her breath catches in her throat. Stepping back, she pulls the door shut. Was he in the bathroom? No, surely not, the lights were out. Re-opening the door, she steps inside. "Erik?"
No response. Where is he? He should not be moving about in his state – the wound although not severe could reopen…and his ankle…his headache. Foolish man. "Where might he be?" His own room? But why move? He seemed quite comfortable here. Would she dare enter that room, if in fact he did retire there? He told her quite firmly never venture inside.
After a moment of thought, she decides, the music room would be most likely. Were she not living here, she suspects he would spend little or no time in the sitting room. There were times she could sense his desire to leave, walking about the room, looking at the bookcase, nodding at her, if he saw her watching him. When she retired for the evening, he would walk her to her room. After which, she was certain he continued past the forbidden room and continued on to his lair.
After tossing the Afghan onto her bed, she hurries to the armoire, finds her dressing gown, throws it on, then finds her slippers in one of the cases Erik packed. A quick glance in her vanity mirror finds the glass still covered with a scarf. Tossing it aside with a shake of her head, she finds her hair mussed from sleeping on the chaise. Removing the few pins still holding her chignon in place, she shakes the golden locks loose and runs her brush through the tangles. A blue silk ribbon is chosen to tie her curls back into a loose ponytail.
Satisfied she is in a fit state to confront him, she hurries back to the hallway. The idea of scolding him soundly when she finds him is short-lived, just put everything back in place later. For the moment, the goal is to find him and return him to bed to sleep and heal.
"We just passed the de Chagny coach, Monsieur," the carriage driver calls down to Nadir. "You told me to keep it in sight."
"Foolish man, I was afraid he would do something like this."
"Shall I pull over?"
"Yes. Yes." Opening the door of the cab, Nadir removes several coins from his waistcoat and hands them to the driver.
"Shall I wait?" the cabby asks, looking at the number of coins in his hand.
"No, I should not wish for you to lose any fares."
"But this is too much – we only drove a few meters."
"Consider it a reward for your fine eyesight," Nadir says, closing the door. "My attention was elsewhere and I would never have seen the carriage."
Taking his time crossing the road, dodging the modest traffic of carts and piles of horse dung, Nadir reaches the walk alongside the Opera House. Finding the open gate took little time, pushing through the unlocked door. Who knows what sort of traps Erik laid out on this path, assuming this is the way to his lodgings. Using mirrors was one of his favorites, but floors opening unexpectedly would be more suitable to this environment.
A glimmer of light is visible in front of him. Praise, Allah, he is in time.
"Vicomte!" he calls out. "Raoul! Stop. Please stop."
Increasing her pace, a new sense of urgency overcoming her. Unsure of where the fear is coming from, nevertheless, she knows she must find Erik now.
"Erik? Are you here?" Although the room itself is only lit with one candelabra, more light is coming from the anteroom of the lake door.
"What are you doing here, my dear?" Erik asks. "I thought you were sound asleep. Did I disturb you?"
Running to him, she grabs his arm to examine his hand. "No, actually it was Isis. She wanted me to follow her."
"Little busy body."
Satisfied the bandage is in place and there is no bleed through, she says, "I became alarmed when I did not find you in bed…are you alright?"
"I could not sleep. It occurred to me I left the booby traps armed, not thinking you would be returning."
"But you taught me how to walk the path."
"Even so. They are dangerous. I came to disarm them."
"And have you?"
"Yes, but as I feared, it seems the first one was sprung." While relishing the close contact, Erik gently pulls his hand away and turns back to the panel. "When I first opened the box the light was flashing red."
"But the light is green."
"It has been reset. I deactivated all the traps. All the lights should be green."
"What is that red light then?
"The street door has been accessed again," he says, pointing to another red light. "I was just making some adjustments when you came. I am not certain if I was in time to prevent another accident."
"Should the path be checked?"
"Yes, at some point…"
"But the first alarm is what has you concerned."
He nods. "If someone is on the path now, he is likely in no danger – at least I hope not. The door to the house is secure, so even if he is clever enough to find it, the house cannot be breached. If, however, he somehow fell into the trap, checking the lake is necessary."
"The lake?"
"The path has a series of trapdoors which if triggered open to tunnel that deposit the intruder into the lake."
Christine giggles.
"You laugh?"
Shrugging she says, "It sounds like it might be fun, like a carnival ride."
"The person would first be hit in the head with a sandbag."
"Oh, well, then I suppose that would not be funny," she says, still having trouble suppressing her amusement.
"It might have been you."
Pondering his statement, she purses her lips and nods. A small smile returns, but her amusement is dimmed somewhat. In her own defense, she says, "But I remembered your instructions and whoever felt they could break into your house would deserve being dumped in the lake."
"My feelings exactly, but the combination of all the elements could be quite serious," he says, quelling what he knows is an inappropriate laugh.
"Well, then, I suppose we should check the lake first."
"We?"
"If there are two people who fell into the trap, you might want some help."
Eyelids half closed, he examines her. The look on her face suggests she will not budge on this. Actually pleased she did not immediately condemn him for his caution and the possibility she might have been harmed by his traps, he agrees. "Very well, although I am not certain your dressing gown is appropriate wear."
"The clothing I wear outside barely allows me to move. I hardly need a bustle to sit in a boat…this garment is just fine."
"At least you have some shoes on. Here put my coat on…I should not wish for you to take cold," he says, removing his coat before unlatching the door. "Let us go fishing."