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The Magician's Rose
Darkness had fallen by the time Erik reached the Giry household. He ascended the steps to the stoop two at a time until he reached the door, where he tapped the knocker against the brass plate in rapid succession. It took only moments for the door to fly open and reveal his beloved Christine.
Her disposition resembled fractured glass. Fine cracks webbed through the transparent surface, struggling to keep water from seeping through. Those lush chocolate tresses were messily drawn back into a loose braid, with errant strands falling over her flour-smudged face. Tears pricked her eyes at the sight of him, those fissures strained in threat of bursting into a torrential flow at any moment.
Then, Christine became quicker than lightning. In a bolt of motion, she tugged him into the small foyer and flung her arms around him in a fierce embrace. The shudder of her silent weeping soon followed.
Erik was slower to react to her fierce hug, still stunned by receiving such ordinary affections that she gifted so easily. Kicking the door shut behind him, Erik pulled her snug against him and planted a trio of honied kisses to her temple. Christine melted with every kiss he gave, though her arms remained locked tight around his waist.
If he could hold her for an eternity and cherish every ounce of her warmth, he would never tire of her presence. It felt so right to have her against him, and Erik delighted in every lingering moment they shared. Nothing in the world meant more to him than Christine. Whatever the Vicomte did to upset her only served to stoke Erik's ire against that imprudent boy.
Nutty aromas of fresh breads, fragrant spices, and perhaps something sweeter, tickled at his senses. That pleasant blend of smells stemmed from the back of the home, on a tide of radiated air. Apparently, Christine had been baking.
"You saw my note?" her voice was a murmur that pulled him back to reality.
"Yes," he kissed her temple twice more, then rested his unmasked cheek against her mussed hair, along with his hand, which rose to cradle the back of her head. "I came straight here."
A long, uneven sigh escaped her, though nothing was said.
"Christine, what happened?"
The pads of her fingers tightened on his back, and her breath hitched. Then, she slowly withdrew just enough to peer up at him. "I have been stuck in my head all day, with no one that I can talk to about any of it. You had your errands, which you should be able to do without me needing you— then with Madame and Meg," Christine pulled away more but sought his hand. "I was either struck in rehearsals, or they had practice, and I couldn't stand it anymore! I came home once I finished my obligations there. I would have gone to your home if I could, but then you would probably get mad at me too, because of the terrible mess I'd likely make of your little kitchen.
"Oh…you always have everything so neat! Even your clutter looks so neat and organized compared to me!" she paused for half a second as she looked him up and down, and she almost drained of color to match the raw flour covering her face and apron. "Now I've made a mess of you…!" she breathed as she began frantically trying to dust off smears of white from his black coat and vest.
Erik searched her features as she, for lack of a better term, ranted about her day, in a shifting narrative that told him nothing more than what her words conveyed. Not that he was a great reader of expressions with any accuracy, as he often had to rely on feeling or his hearing more than he could trust his eyes. "Christine," he intoned as he caught both of her hands in one of his to stop her, while keeping his left at the back of her head in a gentle hold. "I care more about what has upset you than a bit of flour on me."
Christine looked up to him again, the glimmery sheen of her sapphires betraying the presence of unshed tears forming again. When she tried to wipe them away with the back of her wrists, Erik released her hands and offered a handkerchief from his jacket's inner pocket.
She accepted the cloth and dabbed her eyes. "I'm sorry… I'm not…" she heaved a shaking breath and adjusted the fold of the handkerchief to suit her needs in managing the droplets. "I'm not sad, I'm just… many things right now. It's hard to name just one feeling; only, that there are so many of them swirling around that they just… leak out unbidden. That fact just makes me more upset for having them…and then more come along…"
"Christine," he soothed, his thumb caressing her cheek. "What happened?" If that boy so much as raised a polished hand against her…
Christine leaned into his touch, with her eyes fluttering closed a moment, before she let out another weary sigh. "You don't know what your touch does for my soul. It calms me as much as it can excite me." She glanced above his eyeline and raised her hand, lifting the fedora from his head, then set it over the stationary coat rack beside him.
Following her lead, Erik added his cloak to one of the available wooden hooks.
"Come with me," she beckoned and led him to the kitchen, where they took up chairs at the small table. Mixing bowls, wooden spoons, and measuring cups were haphazardly stacked in the basin sink, waiting to be washed. Beside it, the bounty of that mess came in the form of baked breads and muffins that sat on the counter cooling, with enticing scents inviting them to take a taste.
If Christine learned anything in her time with Erik, it was that the manner in which he communicated best was an attempt to draw a retable comparison. Given his background, she did not understand how he managed this so well, though she planned to adopt this trait from him, too.
In light of this, Christine began her tale by asking a question, when they settled into their chairs. "How is it that you are so finely mannered when you have lived a life so isolated, yet, a man from polite society cannot maintain such decorum?"
Christine watched, with some amusement, as Erik's eyes widened and his mouth slightly parted, then closed at the rhetorical question. She spared him the need to answer by continuing, "Raoul came into my dressing with barely a knock and not a blessing from me."
Erik's eyes narrowed to slits.
"He took it upon himself to start seeking out a new singing tutor for me, saying he thought I have gone as far as I can with you. When I told him I had no intention of switching, he was so dismissive. He insisted he would both pay the fees, then sack you on my behalf— so I would never have to deal with you again. When I refused, saying I had no intention of switching…" she shook her head and reached to clasp Erik's cold hand where it rested on the table. It was remarkable how powerful a humble touch between them was; how it sent them soaring or kept them grounded, depending on the needs of the moment.
Erik remained still and stone-faced across from her, his lips pressed to a thin line. At the presence of her hand upon his, he opened his fist so their fingers could interlace.
"He thinks that you must be a fraud, since there is no public record of Chantseur. Although I mentioned that you like your privacy, and it was only a pseudonym you wished to be known as, Raoul insisted I tell him your true name. When I told him that it wasn't my place to tell him, he implored me to reconsider. He claimed I should tell him because I needed someone to look after me and to protect me, because the Girys were hardly suitable for the role."
Though he remained silent, with a hard furrow in his brow, there came a minuscule head shake.
"There were so many times I wanted to speak my mind to him in that conversation, and my spirit rejoiced at this opportunity, so that he may just leave me to my affairs without such intrusion and pressing upon me."
"What did you say?" came the quiet question, though his voice was distant.
Christine leaned forward, giving his fingers a mighty squeeze. "I told him that my Suitor was more than capable of seeing to my needs without his assistance."
Erik's brow raised a bit, and he gave a small squeeze back.
"Raoul seemed shocked. He wanted to know when I was planning to tell him. I said that the offer was made weeks ago, and I accepted it last night. He looked… well, I don't know with any certainty, but…upset? Then, he was angry that I didn't tell him sooner or that there was even someone else pursuing my hand."
She watched Erik's left cheek hallow, as his jaw tensed.
"When I tried to apologize, he cut me off and…"
Erik remained silent, but she saw the stiffness in his posture and the raised brow, as he silently asked for what came next.
"…he implied that I was thoughtless and told me I was outright inconsiderate."
Erik bolted out of his chair like a hare freed from a snare and began pacing the available space in the small room, his fingers rippling in fervent vigor.
Christine continued, feeling the same churn of emotions she experienced then, stirring again in nauseating clarity. "Then, when I tried to say that it wasn't my intention to hurt him, he stormed away…" she said, with all the woe that grew within. She never liked being the cause of any hurt or discomfort, no matter the context.
Erik shook his head, "Christine, you have nothing to apologize for. You have done nothing wrong. You told him you have a Suitor and made no effort to conceal this from him. You are not obligated to tell him anything about your life that you do not wish him to know, including other offers for your hand. Given our circumstances, it is not as though either of us anticipated our courtship to begin as it has."
"Then why do I feel so awful about it all?"
"Because that's how he wants you to feel, to guilt you since you chose someone else. By convention, a typical woman would leap at the chance to be with a wealthy Vicomte with pleasant features. I imagine the idea of you traipsing off with a man in a mask is something of a blow to his fragile ego."
"Fragile ego?" she repeated, her brows now lifting. "I did not tell him who I was seeing."
Erik's pacing stilled, then he turned to her in a single, elegant motion. With a pop of his heels, he leaned forward, with his hands clasped behind his back. "He knows."
"How can he possibly know?"
"When an exquisite woman such as you," he began and straightened his posture, "is in the center of such attentions, a man can spot his competition like an ink blot on fresh paper. He knows it's me. He has been glaring at me in the wings since your luncheon together."
"Why wouldn't you tell me this?"
"To what end? To sway you to my favor?" Erik shook his head. "It is rather manipulative. While such behavior is second nature to me as a means of survival, I have little wish to do that to you again. Your love and trust are infinitely more valuable."
Christine was unsure how to respond, her head a fog from everything that transpired that day. With elbows planted on the table, Christine pressed her closed eyes into the palms of her hands. The pressure helped soothe the ache of the growing mental fatigue deep within. "Just to tell me…? How can I begin to trust anything, when you have misled me before, and Raoul… is guilting me now? Isn't this all manipulations of my heart and mind? I must be more foolish than I thought…"
Silence fell between them before Erik's quiet steps returned him to her side. A feathered touch brushed through her hair until he traced circles along her back between rigid shoulder blades. "Do you believe I have continued to deceive you?"
She shook her head and let a hand fall from her face, blindly reaching for his. "No," she said, as cool fingers laced with hers. "No… I like to think that I would know if you lied to me…but I can't even trust what I think or believe."
Erik resumed his seat across from her and released her hand. "Christine."
Christine tilted her head to look at him with reddened eyes.
"A magician creates illusions by understanding the fallacies of the mind and its need to comprehend. Your eyes will always follow movement," he explained with a graceful wave of his hand and the more elegant dance of his fingers. "It is to a fault, really," his hand stilled. "Especially when the audience wants to know how a trick is done. A good magician knows this well, drawing the eye wherever he wants to detract from the real illusion," Erik's hand waved again, and with a flick, a rose with a short stem was in his grasp, as if it had been there the whole time. "Even as it happens before your eyes."
Her jaw fell slack as she watched the illusion unfold.
"There are better examples of this, however, that takes a bit more time to prepare. Some tricks are so impressive, they will continue to deceive as I show it by each step. Alas, your eyes and mind tell you it must be magic, since it cannot determine how it was done. But you know better than that, even if you cannot explain it."
Christine understood Erik's lesson, following his tender words as he guided her through the workings of her own mind. While she learned to see him through her heart, that new vision did not extend beyond him. In Raoul's company, she found her spirit rebuking him and churning at the philosophies he harbored, while she foolishly rationalized that what he said was normal and to be expected.
Her eyes followed Erik's hand and dismissed how the rose appeared. It was a distraction from the real trick, the subtle actions that her eyes and mind refused to notice due, to its lack of visual interest. Raoul was making those grand gestures in a show of chivalry, as though he had interest in her and her welfare. The subtler trick was to remove Erik from her life.
When Christine did not feel swayed, he made her feel horrible and guilty for staying true to herself.
Erik brought the rose to her lips, then guided it down to her breast so its velvet petals brushed against her skin, evoking delightful prickling from the feathery touch.
"This can be construed as a manipulation," he whispered over the rose's journey across her roused skin to tap at her heart. "Tell me, does this inform you of my intentions?"
The rose touching her lips was a kiss. Erik bringing it across her skin was the caress of his fingers. By his admittance, this flirtation was a manipulation. Yet, he wanted her to use her heart to determine whether his actions were meant for her benefit or as a guise to her detriment.
The answer beat in her breast, with resounding positivity, that he meant her no ill. It spurred the flush that raced to her cheeks and pulled her lips into a smile. Erik would never knowingly bring her harm; she knew that with unwavering certainty.
"It might not always be right, Christine. That takes time and experience to tune. Yet, when your instincts and thoughts are in harmony, what they tell you will be at the height of accuracy."
Christine shifted in her seat to face her sweet Erik. She took the offered rose and tucked it into the hair by her ear, then wrapped both hands around his one. "You've learned this from your travels?"
"Partially. It is more of a necessity. While it appears that everyone else can read all the subtle nuances of social interactions, as learned as I am, I have found that I am incapable of doing the same. Life is akin to watching the world turn, and it making sense to all those who participate in it, while I am just a ghost on the other side of the glass. I see the easy flow of conversations and connections, and I try to emulate what I see with the few I might converse with, but…" he shook his head. "I have had to adapt in some way. Finding the harmony in my own discourse has proven the most reliable, even if it has taken a lifetime to learn, and then some."
"You understand me," she said, giving a squeeze to his hand, "better than anyone else."
"At the risk of sounding insulting, you are simpler than most," Erik began and raised his hand to give pause when Christine's brows shot upward, "…in the sense that, often, you are not a contradiction. You say what you mean, instead of saying one thing and meaning something else— which makes you simpler to understand. Even then, I find myself reliant on other means to comprehend most things about you."
"It's the same for me when I'm with you…and even Meg. No wondering or questions," she gave a tight smile, but her eyes sparkled in a sideways glance, "which makes you quite simple too. But…" she looked to his hand in her own, "I also have your hand giving me great clues."
Erik's brow quirked, with a small, amused smile forming, "I do not have much control of that."
"I find it endearing, my sweet. It's the only way I can really tell what you might be thinking sometimes."
He inclined his head, "That reminds me of something you said about your encounter with the Vicomte. You wanted you speak your mind but did not. Why?"
Their hands parted as Christine slumped back into her chair with a heavy sigh. "Because that is the way of things."
"You are not his wife, and he is not your suitor. You have no obligations to coddle him."
Christine shook her head. "I know that, Erik. I do. I certainly was not trying to coddle him, but to speak in the manner that came to mind is simply not done."
"You should be free to say or do whatever you wish in these things, without such concerns on whether it is acceptable, as long as you are being true to yourself."
"You don't know what it's like. You were born a man, and while you may be an outcast for your face, you still have more liberties in how you go about your life. You are able to do as you please, with little repercussion. You have the power and means to protect yourself. You could go about having as many sexual partners or mistresses as you wish and be congratulated for your exploits. You can remain a bachelor, and no one would care. You can be as crass or polite as you wish, and it would change so little."
Christine shook her head to herself, pulling out the handkerchief from earlier to dab her eyes, while he watched her intently. "As a woman?" she asked in a sullen whimper. "We will never have the same privileges. Even if your parents might be considered forward and swim against the current, sheltering you in their wake, eventually the current will win and sweep you away. If you have a voice, it is silenced. If you have any sexual partner before and other than your husband, you are a whore. If you decide to not marry, you are an old maid. If you weigh too much, you are unappealing. Weighing too little is just as bad. The smaller the waist, the better the hips, for bearing the husband's children. If you can't give him a son— what good are you?
"You come to realize you are just a commodity to keep everyone but yourself happy. God help you if you're not always smiling. 'Why aren't you smiling? You're so much prettier when you smile.' 'You look so sour. You should smile more.' Then, if you so speak your mind, you are lucky to be heard and not dismissed. If you say something a man doesn't like, you are ridiculed, or he could seek to destroy your life because you displeased him or did not bend to his whim.
"When it comes to marriage… well, I'm sure you know all that goes with that," she murmured, deflating now that she reached the end of her rant, which left her spirits unburdened. "This morning… I considered telling you some of this when we discussed Raoul, but time proved a constraint."
Erik listened to her every word, picking out a few of his own guilts as she vented the frustrations that life dealt her. He had his patriarchal traits that he had dealt unto her during the other life, when he was an isolated fool who had grown mad in his desperation for love and meaning. He held on so tightly to her, the very idea of her and what they should be, that he gave her so little consideration for what she wanted then.
The compassion that Christine showed him was so powerful in ways, that it spurred the changes that brought them here now, where she could speak so openly. His eyes searched her face, streaked with wet flour, smudged here and there. Unsure how to proceed, he could only say what came from his heart.
"Christine…" he began in quiet earnest, carefully considering every word. "I may not understand every facet of what you, or any other woman, goes through in this life…but I do empathize, if only by my own hindrances that can scarcely compare. You should not be made to feel so chronically uncomfortable, to keep a man feeling good about himself. I would hate to see you smothering that beautiful flame in your spirit, just to keep someone happy. Even me."
Those gemstone eyes held more glimmer from the overflow of tears catching light, and he ached for her.
"Come, my love," he crooned, holding a hand out to her. When she took it, Erik pulled her from her chair to his lap.
Christine burrowed into his inviting arms, resting her head upon his shoulder and her hand on his sternum, to clutch his crisp white shirt. "I know there is much happiness to be had and genuine love and caring shared. I saw that in my parents, between the Valérius's, and how Madame Giry talks of her late husband…but you, my Sweet Erik? You are especially rare," she tilted her head a little to plant a small kiss on his collarbone, a slight smile forming as she shifted a little for comfort. "You never dismiss my thoughts or ask for my smile."
Erik shifted his chin and pressed a lingering kiss to her forehead. Though it was chaste, he did not draw his mouth away from her skin. It was liberating to give her such unhindered affection, in his chronic need to show her his love. "I rather like earning your smile and your blush."
Her eyes fluttered shut, taking in the mild spice in his scent that reminded her of a rich cinnamon and traces of rosewood. "You would not have me powder my cheeks pink and smile every time we share company?" she jested, smiling still as she traced the seams of his shirt. "Should I shape my brows in a manner that suggests that they are always lifted in that pleasing way…?"
"Your smile is best when it is genuine. Your cheeks are perfect as they are, and reshaping your brows in such a way..." he shook his head with a small flash of a grin against her temple "Terrifying."
"Maybe I should start tightlacing…"
"If you start tightlacing, I will find every one of your corsets and burn them."
In all the mock seriousness that she could muster, she asked, "If you do that, what will support me?"
There was only a brief pause before both his hands cupped her breasts, which made Christine burst into a fit of laughter that turned her cheeks red and dampened her eyes. Her laughter was joined by a deep chuckle, as he gave a little squeeze.
"Oh yes," she wheezed. "That will go over very well. 'I apologize everyone! I have lost my corsets, so my suitor insists on giving me his support!'"
A few hearty laughs escaped him as his hands fell to her waist. Their mirth brought levity to a long day, and relief in each other's company, as their mirth filled the Giry house. When good humor calmed them, Erik nuzzled her ear with a loving croon, "Always,"
Christine turned in his lap to look deep into his eyes, her hand rising to cradle the cool cheek of his fine white mask. "Thank you, Erik."
He gave a slight nod before their lips met in a small, affectionate kiss. It was neither chaste nor salacious, but rather something in-between, as Christine's hand dropped from the mask to caress the back of his neck, while he stroked her spine.
Upon their eventual parting with proximity unchanged, Christine whispered a small request, "Take me with you tonight? I want your arms around me as I sleep."
"My home is in some disarray at the moment, and you have mass in the morning."
"I would rather have your company."
"If that is your wish, how can I deny you this request?"
"Thank you," she beamed.
That small smile peaked out again, before Erik suddenly frowned, his eyes narrowing as he sniffed the air. "Have you left something in the oven?"
Taking a whiff herself, Christine smelled the acrid scent of the burning chicken and mushroom pie she had made for dinner. "The Tourte!" she announced and leaped from Erik's lap in a dash to the oven. A thin wisp of smoke began seeping from the iron door, which became a cloud when Christine opened it with a mittened hand. The smoke was an assault on the senses, making the singer recoil and cough a bit, as she then fanned the plume away from her face.
Snatching up a pair of towels from the sink, Erik shifted in front of her and hastily tugged out the blackened pie, which he deposited on the stovetop. He shut the iron door with a metallic clank! and sidestepped over to the sink, where he shoved the window above it wide open.
"Oh! It's ruined," Christine groaned between small coughs as she stepped over to the stove, still fanning the smoke with her oven mitts. "They will be home any time now, and I've ruined dinner."
Erik glanced between Christine and the pie, where the puff pastry crust was more shades of dark brown and black than a baker's favored golden hues. "The filling may be salvageable," he said, between a few choked coughs of his own. He then turned and began looking through the cupboards until he found a glass, which he filled with water.
"The chicken will be dry and mealy… more than usual," Christine lamented. "Who wants to eat dried-out chicken?"
Erik handed her the water glass, "Drink."
She obeyed, taking a normal sip.
Hardly enough.
Erik raised his hand with a bounce of his index finger in silent command of, More.
The impudent look she gave in the twist of her mouth and the rise of her brows was an amusing sight, but she obliged him by taking a longer drink, so only a quarter of it remained.
He gave a satisfied nod at her intake, enough to at least wash away the bulk of any irritants the smoke might have left in her precious throat. Looking over the over-crisp remains of the Tourte, his memory flashing through items he recalled seeing in the cupboards, an idea sprung to mind. "The Giry's are not yet here, my love."
Christine looked up from her smoldering creation to see his raised brow.