In the end, it was her cramping stomach that ultimately forced her out of the bedroom. She had been trapped in the dark room for what felt like days, and she slept on and off. She had hoped that there would be food next to her when she woke up—that Erik had snuck in and had placed something on the nightstand next to her—but nothing in the room had been touched. He was going to force her out. He wasn't going to be merciful.
Before she emerged, she took a long, hot shower, standing there with her eyes closed. The water seemed to wash away the hysterics, and she felt resolved. She would not act like a child. She had to be brave. Still, she crept to the door and pressed her ear against it, holding her breath, just in case. No sounds came from the other side. Maybe he was gone, out of the house entirely.
Slowly, she pushed the door open, looking out into the main room. It was empty. With a silent breath of relief, she stepped out and tiptoed towards the kitchen. The cupboards were well-stocked, and she debated just eating a piece of fruit and some bread to appease her growling stomach, but the memory of the apple and dry toast made her gut twist in vague disgust.
There was lingonberry jam in the refrigerator, and she took it out and stared at it for a few seconds. Taking a deep breath, she set it on the counter and began preparing her breakfast, refusing to think of anything other than what she was cooking. He did not emerge, did not come to disturb her as she worked, and she felt herself relaxing infinitesimally. It was easier to sort through her swirling thoughts when he was not around to confuse her.
After she sat down to eat, however, she heard a door opening, and her heart froze in her chest as she heard his footsteps. For a moment, she grabbed the edge of the table, preparing to run back to the bedroom, but she knew it was a stupid, cowardly thought, and so she forced herself to let go. She sat there, staring at her plate, bracing herself for him.
"You've emerged," he said when he saw her. "I was beginning to assume you had died in there."
Her head spun a bit, and she forced herself not to react.
"You've calmed down, then?" he continued. "You are through being a hysterical little girl?"
Licking her dry lips, she nodded and was then immediately humiliated that she answered his question. His gaze went to her plate on the table.
"I would have gotten you whatever you wanted," he said. "You only needed to have asked. But I suppose you like to cook. So perhaps it is better this way."
When she did not reply, he made an impatient noise with his tongue. "Have you lost your voice, my dear? You have hardly said two words since you've been back."
Trying to sound calm and confident but knowing she wouldn't, she swallowed and said, her voice trembling, "I'm fine."
"Ah. 'Fine' again. I see." His voice was cool, tinged with sarcasm.
She didn't feel brave enough to look at him, so she stared at her plate. The jam was seeping around her plate and staining everything an ugly, muddy red. He lingered, and out of the corner of her eyes, she could see him clench his hand into a fist and then relax it. Several silent seconds passed. She wanted him to go away, but she needed him to stay, because she had to ask what had happened to Mr. Khan and Raoul.
"What have you made?" he then asked, his voice suddenly and strangely soft. It seemed he was trying out a different tactic.
"It's a Swedish breakfast," she whispered, looking at her fork. "With potatoes."
A few more moments of silence passed. Then he said, "Do you like the jam? I am not sure how authentic it is, but it was all I could find."
"It's perfect," she said. "I like it. Thank you." The jam was too sweet. But she took a small bite, trying to prove that she wasn't lying. Then she put her fork back down.
"Are you finished?" Erik said pointedly after another minute of torturous silence. "You're not eating anymore."
She looked at the soggy, jam-soaked potato bits and then nodded. "I guess I'm full." When she tried to clear her plate, he stopped her.
"Leave that. We can deal with it later. I would very much like to have a lesson now."
He really wanted to have a lesson? He expected her to sing when all she could see in her mind was Mr. Khan lying there, his fingers covered in his own blood? She took a little breath. She had to know. She had to know. If they continued on in this farce like nothing had happened, she wouldn't be able to live with herself.
Her heart racing, her breath catching, she said hesitantly, "Erik. Wait. Is Mr. Khan...is he…?"
"Nadir?" Erik tilted his head, giving her a look that made her want to squirm. "Is he what?"
He was being deliberately cruel. She forced herself to speak. "Is he...okay?"
"Ah. There is always something wrong with him. He is a busybody. I have told you before. He likes to meddle."
Did you kill him, Erik? Is he dead?
"Is he still alive?" she whispered.
"Alive?" He paused, each second feeling like it stretched on and on, and then he said, "Yes. Because you would not like it otherwise."
She let out a little shuddering breath, daring to glance up at him again. "He's in the hospital?"
"He is alive and is being treated. There. Now be satisfied."
Christine reached up and tugged on a few curls, bracing herself for the explosion that would come. "And is Raoul—?"
"Why should you be concerned with him?" Erik immediately snapped. "He is nothing to you anymore! You broke off all attachments to him months ago! You swore to me!"
Her breath was becoming faster, and her mouth was suddenly dry again. "I know, but you said—"
"He is nothing!" he interrupted. "He means nothing. He does not care about you! He despises our music!"
It was useless trying to argue with him, but she had to know. She had gone too far now and wasn't sure if she would be brave enough to try again. "But is he okay, Erik? That's all I want to know. You said that he—"
"Enough!" His voice seemed to fill the whole house, and she flinched, pressing a hand over her mouth to prevent a cry from escaping.
"That is enough from you," he hissed, his teeth clenched, his eyes flashing. "Perhaps I prefer a mute little mouse if you insist on speaking such damnable nonsense."
She sat there, face warm, tears gathered in her eyes, and said nothing.
After another moment, his voice softened, and he said, "It has been a trying few days for you, and you are delicate. I understand. But we do not have the luxury of time. Opening night is soon, and you still need practice. If you are feeling refreshed and strong enough, I would very much like to work on a few things with you."
Opening night. That meant that she was still going to be singing, which would mean she would return above ground for rehearsals and performances. And that meant leaving this place. The thought spread a sudden calmness through her. As soon as she was above, she would go to the police and tell them what happened. Even if they thought she was crazy, she would tell them everything.
He focused the entire lesson on her part in Elektra. Even though she had long ago memorized her part, he still found minor flaws to work on, obviously wanting her to be perfect for opening night.
"You are very nearly there," he said to her. "We must simply clean up your pronunciation a little and work out a few more difficult dynamics."
She did her absolute best, wanting the lesson to be over as quickly as possible. There would be no helping Mr. Khan or herself if she continued to throw fits and hide in the bedroom. The only way she could help was to leave.
After what felt like hours, he seemed to be satisfied enough with her progress to end the lesson, and she nearly slumped onto the piano in relief. She made a show of stretching her tense neck, trying to sound casual as she asked, "Did I miss rehearsals today?"
He waved a hand. "You have rehearsed enough with me."
"But Mr. Reyer and Mr. Gabriel will be mad that I—"
"They have been informed of your absence," he interrupted, standing from the bench and gathering the music. He did not look at her as he spoke. "You're receiving very special training from me. You will attend the last two rehearsals. I will see to it that you are perfection incarnate for opening night."
Taking a deep breath, trying to think of ways to get out of the house sooner, she pressed her hands to her sides and said, "But Erik, I think I should be there for all the rehearsals. It's not fair to the other performers that I—"
He wouldn't let her finish. "I do not care what is considered 'fair' for mediocre—or, in most cases nonexistent—talent. They will do nothing but sing your praises after opening night. Reyer knows you are destined for greatness. He understands the extenuating circumstances that arise when exceptional talent is about to be given its debut. You know yourself that you will learn more here with me in a few days than you would rehearsing up there for a year."
She did her best to calm herself, watching as he began to put away the sheet music and closed the fallboard. It wasn't ideal, but it had to be enough—she would have to wait until he decided to take her up for rehearsals. If she seemed too eager to get out, he would become suspicious and not let her leave at all. He kept saying that he wanted her to have her 'debut,' but she did not doubt that he would take that away in an instant if he suspected she would leave him.
If she could manage to stay calm, keep him happy and convinced that nothing had changed—even though she had seen him shoot someone, even though he hadn't told her whether Raoul was alive or not—if she could manage that, he would let her go up, and she would be free.
He set the pile of music aside, saying, "I had arranged a drive for us tonight. But you still seem tired, and I don't want you to overexert yourself. You should lie down and rest instead."
"I feel fine!" She resisted wincing at her own blatant eagerness. Quickly, she tried to amend herself. "I mean...I'll just be sitting in the car. I won't be exerting myself. Maybe the ride will help me sleep. And it—it would be nice to go on a drive with you. It's been a while."
She could see suspicion in his gaze. His mouth tightened slightly. Apparently there was a thin line between being too obvious to want to get away and being too obvious in her efforts to placate him.
After a few long moments of invisible panic, she nearly sighed with relief when he said, "Very well. We will leave soon. You should eat something before we leave—particularly after a long lesson."
"Okay. Yeah. Good idea." She went back to the kitchen and made herself a little sandwich, not up to the task of cooking something else. When she was done, she returned to him, trying to smile, but it probably looked like more of a grimace.
"You are ready?" he asked, and she nodded.
She didn't want to touch him during the walk up to the street, but she eventually had to end up grasping the cuff of his sleeve. It was too dark to manage otherwise. If nothing else, hopefully it put him in a good mood.
It felt slightly surreal to emerge into a warm sunset. Christine looked around, amazed that she was outside in the air fresh and the natural light. Of course, as always, Erik did not allow her to linger, gesturing her to the awaiting car.
The interior felt familiar and slightly threatening, and she stared out of the window, watching the people on the sidewalks, in the stores, getting in and out of their own cars. None of them had any idea what was happening. None of them knew that she was doing her best not to scream, that she was keeping a panicked, horrified outburst deep inside her.
The familiar sensation of being watched crept over her, and she resisted looking around at him, instead staring more intensely out of the window, keeping her hands tucked in her lap in case he tried to touch them.
Neither spoke. The car seemed to simply be meandering through the city, and Christine felt her heart start to pound slightly as she began to recognize the area. Swallowing several times to get the lump out of her throat, she glanced over at Erik and said,
"That nice bakery is right around the corner. Can I get something, please? I'll buy something for you, too."
He tapped his fingers lightly against his opposite arm. "You ate something just before we left."
Her heart sank. "I know. But I just thought it would be fun to—"
"Tell me what you want, and I will have it for you tomorrow. I have no cash on me at the moment."
It was a lie, but what was she to do? She quietly told him that she wanted a fruit tart, and then she leaned against the window and sat in sullen silence, too frustrated to try to act for him anymore.
Sure enough, the next morning, there was a fruit tart waiting for her. She ate it for breakfast, doing her best to give herself a mental pep talk to make it through the day. She would be free soon.
He approached her the moment she was finished.
"I would like to have your lesson now," he said abruptly, his gaze directed to the left of her instead of looking at her.
"Okay." She felt a faint twinge of unease.
"We have much to do. And opening night is in just a few days."
Christine nodded. "It's soon. I want to make sure I'm ready."
"You will be. In every sense possible." He turned his gaze over to the piano on the other side of the room. "We have much to do."
The repetition unsettled her further, and she followed him to the piano. He sat down, pulled out the score, and let it thump down heavily on top of the instrument. Something seemed off about him, which made her nervous.
As he played through her warmups, she noticed that he was looking at her hands. She quickly hid them behind her back. Her heart was beating hard, but she didn't understand why.
Erik didn't comment on her actions and instead led her through some scales. She did not do well, but he continued to press forward, and she grew more flustered, forgetting lyrics she had memorized months ago, lyrics she had sung perfectly fine only yesterday.
She continued to make mistakes—with the pronunciation, the dynamics, the entrances, her breathwork and even her pitch. The lesson became a complete disaster, and when he finally closed the fallboard of the piano, she stood there, cheeks burning, staring at the floor, waiting for his tirade.
Instead, he stood and said, "I must check the time." He disappeared behind the door next to the piano, leaving Christine more nervous than ever. Why had he not exploded in anger at her poor performance? Maybe he was going easy on her leading up to opening night—but that was not like him at all. If anything, he had always worked her harder the days leading up to performances.
After a few minutes, she stepped out into the main room and sat on the sofa, unsure if she was allowed to go back to the bedroom.
She looked around, waiting nervously. How badly she had done in the lesson was embarrassing, but she had to remind herself that there were things at stake much larger than a small role in a small opera. If everything went as she planned, she wouldn't even be performing in Elektra. The thought made her extremely upset, but she had to remind herself that what she planned to do was more important. There were other people's lives at stake. If—if they were even alive.
With a deep breath, she pressed her hands over her face and shook her head. Not now. Later she could panic. Right now she had to be calm. The phrase continued to repeat itself. Be calm. Be calm. It would all be over soon.
After a while, she pulled her feet up onto the sofa and leaned her head against the armrest, staring at the door, waiting for him to return. But it was silent, both in the main room and from the other room. She heard nothing but her own breathing. The stillness was pressing. She squeezed her eyes shut to escape it, forcing herself to think of nicer things. Music, her small apartment, hot baths in candlelight...the sun. Sunshine with Raoul. A park on a spring day with a picnic and ice cream.
She rubbed her eyes, telling herself to sit up, to stay awake. But soon she fell into a doze, comfortable and warm on the couch. Her last vague thought for a while was the hope that she would sleep so long that she would be taken straight to dress rehearsals the moment she woke.
However, a bony hand was then shaking her shoulder gently, waking her. She started a little and opened her eyes to see Erik there. Almost immediately, she could sense that he was still off. Something felt wrong.
"Are you okay?" she said, her voice a whisper.
"I am fine." His voice was higher than normal. "But you must get up. We must do this now."
She squinted at him in confusion. "Do what?"
He did not answer and instead stared at his hand, still resting on her shoulder. Several moments passed. She shifted to get his hand off of her, sitting up, pulling her legs to her chest to protect herself.
"Do what?" she repeated, her own voice becoming tighter. "Do what, Erik?"
"It is in the bedroom," he said. "You should change."
"Change into what?" She slid to the opposite end of the couch, away from him, watching him in unknowing fear. Or maybe she did know.
"I will give you time to dress yourself and style your hair. Women like that, don't they? I can provide a mirror if you need one."
"Are we going on another drive?" she asked quickly—it felt like she was begging. "That would be nice—just a drive."
"Perhaps we will after." He still wasn't meeting her gaze. "Right now we are on a schedule, and you must change."
"I don't feel good," she said abruptly, loudly. "I think I'm sick. I think I need to go back to sleep."
"You have already slept for so many hours." Before she could stop him, he pressed his cold fingers briefly to her forehead, and she gave a small, pathetic whimper. He withdrew his hand and then said, "There is no fever. You are not flushed. I think you're perfectly well. You know I only want to provide for you and see that you are cared for. So go change, my dear. Go change."
The last place she wanted to go was back to the bedroom. In there she would have to face reality. And she had already suppressed so much over the past few days.
"I just want to listen to you play tonight," she said, her words rushed and panicked. "Please, Erik. I want to stay here and listen to you play the violin. Will you?"
"You certainly seem to want to do a great deal," he said. "And we will do everything you wish. But after. No more dawdling. It's time."
She gave up the farce. "Erik, please," she whispered. "Please…"
"You haven't even seen the surprise. I think you will like it. It's very beautiful. I want only your happiness, Christine."
Tears began to well up in her eyes. "I want to go home," she said. "Please. I want to go home."
"This is your home. But you know that, my dear. Don't you? You know we belong here together."
She began to cry in earnest, and Erik said quickly, "I understand that this is natural. It's common for women to have some anxiety. Let me show you—I will show you, and then you will see and understand."
He quickly strode over the bedroom and emerged a moment later with a long, clear garment bag. Delicate white fabric was visible, careful embroidery and minimal appliques running up and down the length of the dress.
"You see?" He held it up a little. "There is lovely lace on the sleeves. It will be perfect for you. But first you must put it on." He held it out to her, and she turned away, pressing her hands over her face. There was a lengthy, pregnant pause. She had her eyes shut, praying and wishing that he would just go away, take that horrible bag with him and disappear forever.
"You are a modest girl," he then said. "It's understandable that you might be overwhelmed. But there is no need. You deserve to be adorned with fine things. I will give you everything you could ever want. You need only ask. There's no reason for you to continue wallowing in poverty. I see your potential. I understand. You do not need to be afraid anymore, Christine."
Her crying had turned into sobs. It was no use. No use trying to make him see reason, to tell him what a terrible, terrible thing he was doing. There was no point at all. And yet she couldn't make herself simply get up and do as he said. She couldn't give up that easily.
"Your tears will dry as soon as you put it on," he said, speaking loudly to be heard over her sobbing. "It's quite beautiful. I have given you beautiful dresses before, and you adored them. This is not so very different. So put it on."
She didn't reply, didn't turn toward him, and after several seconds, she sensed his mood shift. He was becoming frustrated.
"Put it on," he repeated, the garment bag crinkling. "Christine. Get up. You must change now." A pause. She couldn't speak and instead curled up further into the couch, wanting it to swallow her and hide her. The garment bag rustled again. His voice was short now, angrier: "Get up. Now. You will do this. We don't have any more time for your tantrums."
After another minute in which she did not reply, she felt his bony hand grab her arm, and again she was yanked up. She screamed, holding her other hand up to protect herself, knowing it would do nothing. The pressure on her arm was painful, and she tugged at his bony wrist as he dragged her to the bedroom.
For a brief, insane moment, she hoped that he would slam the door behind her and tell her to stay in there, but instead he entered with her and pushed her toward the bed. The garment bag was flung down on the mattress.
"You will change into that now," he snarled, his hands clenched at his sides, his eyes narrowed, his shoulders tense. "I won't tell you again. You have fifteen minutes."
He left the room, slamming the door behind him. Christine sank down to the floor next to the bed, dazed, still crying but now silent, staring at the door. It was happening. What she had been silently dreading, the unspoken terror, the threat that had loomed over her the past few days. It was here, and she could not escape.
Panicked, incoherent thoughts ran through her mind. She could fight him somehow and leave. She could ruin the dress and therefore his plans. She could barricade herself in the bathroom and refuse to come out. She could wait until they were above ground and then start screaming and run away. She could do what he wanted until opening night of Elektra and then use that as her opportunity to escape.
Each idea sounded hollow, pathetic, and useless. She couldn't physically fight him in any capacity. It didn't matter if she ruined the dress; it would make him furious, but it wouldn't stop him. He would be able to open the bathroom door and drag her out, and he could easily stop her from running when they went above. The only thing she could see…
It chilled her, sickened her to the core. To actually do what he wanted, be with him for a few more days as his wi—
She couldn't finish the thought. It was illegal. There was no way he could force her. If she told the police, they would have to agree that nothing was binding or legal. And therefore she would be free—of him and of the sham he wanted to force onto her.
But what if he only wanted what came with it? She wanted to crawl under the bed at the thought. He couldn't force her, right? No matter what he said or did, she could not. If he forced her, he would go to jail. If he touched her—she would turn him in. She would tell the police absolutely everything. If he did, he would cross a line she thought he had respected. He had never given any indication or sign that he would ever harm her in that way. But maybe...maybe doing this would give him permission in his own mind.
There was something wrong with him. Mr. Khan had been right all along. This was a game. He didn't care about her. She had been wrong the entire time. And now this was her punishment. It was coming. And it began only a few minutes later with a loud, heavy knock on the door.
"Christine. Your time is up."