A/N: Thank you so much for your support and reviews! : ) (And thanks to those who sent me encouragement and well wishes while I battled the Covid. Am improving more every day – got most of my strength back - and am feeling well enough and lucid to write and post this chapter. : )) And now…
Chapter XV
.
Throughout the days that followed, Christine fully recovered and her tutelage with Monsieur de Ranier resumed. Before each lesson, he provided her with a meal, usually some form of soup, and bread he sliced that she watched him lightly toast over a flame. Christine did not think she had enjoyed a meal more than those shared with her new teacher.
Usually he favored a shadowed part of the room and Christine sat near the candle's flames. While they ate, often they would converse, mostly about music, especially with regard to the violin, though sometimes she spoke of treasured memories of childhood days spent with her father. On occasion, her teacher revealed the tiniest morsels of his boyhood as well – and she found herself wishing she had known the small lad who befriended a mouse he'd found in his mother's attic and made into his pet.
Once their meal concluded came the part of the afternoon that made her soul soar. A portion of her instruction was to watch his form and technique while he played the violin, but often she found herself lost in his blissful music as he swept her inside his world…
Much like another man had done.
Bittersweet memories of her Angel and the realization of qualities both her teachers shared served as a warning not to allow her heart to become involved a second time. She still felt such a close affinity with the man she would sadly always remember only as her Angel, and though he had abandoned her, sending her away to live a solitary life without him, to even harbor thoughts of interest toward another man felt like a betrayal.
In her fear, Christine had escaped down that path before, three times with Raoul, the last of which led to tragic consequences for many, most of them simple observers of an opera and innocent of any involvement with the Phantom or the theatre. Never again would she flee to another man to escape her feelings for another. Entanglements of the heart led to brokenness and despair. She had come to decide that simple companionship was preferred.
Thus, once a fortnight elapsed, Christine was delighted that after some hesitance on his part Monsieur de Ranier agreed to accompany her to the benefit. While at the same time she exercised caution to keep a cordial distance between them that exclusively denoted friendship.
The oral invitation given had been for a group affair, and in any case, unmarried young women simply did not ask gentlemen out on private outings. That rare nugget of societal wisdom she had learned from one of the chorus girls at the Opera House.
Of course she now understood that she had broken nearly every rule of etiquette when traveling unchaperoned, lost beneath the earth and cut off from the rest of the world, sometimes spending nights in the bedchamber provided for her, all to spend time with her Angel in perfecting her voice.
And though it had all been entirely innocent – (he had barely touched her, and when he did, still he treated her with respect) – Christine was fast learning that such behavior was unacceptable in the everyday world devoid of the theatre. Madame Giry had been strict with the cast, even the crew, but social events were rarely supervised, the chorus girls freely mixing with male members, young and old, sometimes in dark corners…
Theresa's aunt had emphatically stated that they could not attend the benefit without a chaperone and as such, planned to attend – until she sought the medical expertise of Monsieur de Ranier for various physical grievances and he advised her to get complete bed rest for the remainder of the week, what amounted to five days. Had their landlady, having overheard the conversation, not stepped in to offer her services, Theresa would be prohibited from going to the bazaar, and in turn, Christine would have needed to bow out, ill at ease to attend alone with her new teacher. She struggled with a need to maintain cordial distance and also wanted this chance to establish a good reputation, since what little she had in Paris had been left in ruins…
It was all so new to her, these stringent rules – even in the three months Raoul courted her, they'd had no chaperone. But now that she dwelled within Marseille she did not wish to be regarded as a jezebel. For that reason, she reconsidered her current situation: it might not be wise to visit with her teacher for lessons, alone, in his private attic room, and certainly her room would be no better. And yet she needed to learn the skill and excel, so as to teach in the future. Moreover, those meager two hours together had become the high point of her days. On each occasion, it had been difficult to leave the mystique of his presence and return to her sad, little, empty room.
Oh, it was all so frustrating!
Realizing the passage of time by the length of shadows that ran across the floor, Christine swept all further thought into a corner of her mind and hurried to freshen up for the upcoming occasion.
x
The charity bazaar was held in a closed hotel, its upper levels currently under renovation, the ground floor having been loaned out for the weekend event. Inside, the area was vast, a sea of people swarming from table to cloth-covered table scattered end to end, all of diverse size and shape. Small potted trees decorated the nooks and crannies, the entire area well lit with the bright glow of gas lamps bracketed to papered walls, candles everywhere one looked, and two elaborate chandeliers that hung high overhead.
The lobby desk was plentiful with baskets filled with rolls of tickets, and clutching fifty of her precious francs in one hand, Christine approached one of four women who stood behind the counter to give aid. The benefit was to help the orphans, a subject dear to her heart since she had been one, and though she scrimped to save what money she had, allotting it only for rent and to buy the cinnamon cakes her violin teacher favored as her contribution to their meals, she felt the loss of such a significant amount a worthy one.
Christine handed over her money, reaching to accept one of the small baskets, when her escort suddenly stepped up by her side and handed several bills to the lady behind the counter.
"If you will please wait your turn, monsieur."
"I wish you to add this to the lady's donation."
"Oh! Of course." The woman smiled, took the bills, and put back the smaller basket in favor of a large one.
Christine turned to Monsieur de Ranier. Not to her surprise, he had left on his dark blue pince-nez – in all likelihood due to the trouble with his eyes and the bright illumination of the room, though in truth she had never seen him without them. A silk navy ascot rested up against his jaw above a shimmering black waistcoat shot with silver thread. Nor had he removed his dark plum-colored tophat that matched his long frock coat, his reddish brown curls brushing his shoulders. His appearance always appeared avant-garde in nature and, perhaps because she was a child of the theatre, she found his presence quite stunning if a bit eccentric.
"I cannot accept this from you," she gently stated.
"Am I not allowed to make a contribution to the bazaar?" he said offhandedly. "I have no use for tickets, no plans to make a purchase, so you may have mine."
Speechless in the light of his generosity, she should not be surprised. Since the day they met he'd shown nothing but benevolence toward her. Still, it might not be considered proper to accept such a generous gift from a man, though their chaperone busily chattered a short distance away with a small group of women to notice – and it was for a worthy cause. All of the money going toward the local orphanage.
She smiled and gave a little nod of consent, accepting the larger basket and placing the handle to hang over one arm. He barely touched her other sleeve below the elbow, steering her past several groups of people to join Theresa and Monsieur Laurent.
The girl clutched her own basket of tickets and turned enthusiastically to address Christine. "Isn't this amazing? Oh, where shall we begin? Perhaps at that table with the china dolls? They look so adorable!"
"Lead the way," Christine laughed.
Besides the myriad of craftsmen displaying their wares for purchase, various entertainers exhibited their skills for those who drew near to watch. Their group of four slowly strolled from table to table, eyeing the many clocks and vases and statuettes – and just about everything else conceivable the mind could imagine. Christine also spotted a man who stood on a small podium before crystal glasses filled with various amounts of liquid, lightly striking each with a metal spoon to produce a lovely sound, a graceful harpist sitting in one corner, a talented juggler, even a magician!
Overwhelmed with so much to see and do and so many choices of what to purchase, Christine had no idea where to begin. She had no true need of anything she saw and clutched her basket uncertainly. Ahead of them, Theresa was a veritable wealth of words, often in exchange with her escort, while Christine's own companion remained silent, and she began to wonder if he wished he had never come…
"Is everything alright?" she asked at last, when she could not help but notice his eyes dart in uneasy speculation. At least it seemed that way, with the manner in which he would suddenly wrench his head slightly to the side, as if alert to some existing peril, though with the pince-nez in place, she couldn't be sure…
Erik felt taken aback by her question and the concern in her beautiful eyes. Even shaded in blue, she was, as always, a vision of loveliness, and not for the first time, he wished he could remove the blasted pince-nez and see her true coloring.
"I am unaccustomed to large crowds. I do not mix well with them," he offered the weak explanation, however valid. At the theatre, he remained hidden behind walls and high in the rafters. The few times he did venture into public view had ended with horrific results, the last time literally bringing the house down upon their heads.
During his time in Marseille, especially when going to the busy market to gather necessities for their meals, he had grown more accustomed to mingling, even blending in with the crowds that walked the city streets.
His excuse to Christine was not what really troubled him.
One thing could be said in favor of the construction of the Paris Opera House - there had been a myriad of exits. Here, in this hotel under construction, not only were the stairs cordoned off – the upper levels in current disrepair - but from what he had been able to ascertain in scanning the area, only one solitary exit existed in this vast room overrun with hordes of people. And that link to the outside world was subpar, existing of a revolving door at the front of the building. In the case of a fire breaking out from the hundreds of open flames atop candlesticks foolishly strewn across dozens of cloth-covered tables – it took only one slim taper knocked over to create a disaster of great magnitude…
"I am sorry that you're not having an enjoyable time," Christine said, interrupting his morbid train of thought, the smile he had witnessed all afternoon fading.
He silently cursed himself to see it – always he seemed to cause her misery – and resolved to do his utmost to bring back her smile and keep it there.
"Never mind me. I will manage. I noticed we passed by a magician earlier. Would you care to watch him perform?"
She hesitated and then her glorious smile returned. "Yes, I should love that."
Thankfully, the irksome Madame Crispin hovered near Mademoiselle Ledoux and her insolent companion who ogled items of a table in the distance. Twice Erik had dourly witnessed the man stare at Christine, longer than good manners allowed, and was grateful for this opportunity to spirit her away.
The magician stood on a podium a few feet off the floor. However, it took only a short few minutes to see that his interaction with the small audience that had gathered was pathetic, his sleight of hand as he pulled colored kerchiefs tied end to end from his hand amateur at best.
Erik scoffed a groan when the man fumbled in accidentally showing a glimpse of the kerchiefs stowed up his sleeve and said in an aside to Christine, "This is painful to watch. I do apologize for making the suggestion."
She raised her brows with a little shrug. "He's not so bad. Just nervous, I think."
The so-called magician doffed his top hat and tapped it with a wand – a little too strongly, as he almost lost hold of the brim and fumbled to keep the hat from falling.
Christine stifled a chuckle and Erik groaned. "His efforts would be better utilized as a clown. Or perhaps a court jester."
This time Christine released a quiet giggle, the sweet sound propelling him to offer a few more sardonic comments, dryly amusing and utterly truthful.
"It seems I have a heckler," the magician said, stiff-lipped. "If you think you can do better, monsieur, be my guest."
He waved a hand to the podium in invitation, the defiance in his eyes making clear he thought he had the upper hand and Erik would refuse.
His bag of tricks secreted deep within the pockets of his long frock coat, the erstwhile Phantom could not resist the opportunity to play.
"Very well, if you wish."
Swiftly he took the steps up to the podium, noting the befuddled look the man threw his way, clearly not having expected Erik to take up the challenge.
"You did extend the invitation," he said with a smirk.
The man nervously looked out over the growing crowd and awkwardly nodded, stepping to the side. Erik turned his attention toward Christine.
"My dear mademoiselle, if you would be so kind as to do me the favor of procuring a candle from the table nearest you?"
Christine appeared in a daze, as if still disbelieving that her escort had stepped up to entertain the masses, but nodded and moved to a nearby exhibit of feathered hand fans and muffs.
"If I may?" she asked the woman behind the table, who looked on with amused confusion but nodded.
Christine took the lit candle and blew it out before crossing over to the podium and handing it up to Erik. Having recently survived the worst of fires, her deliberate action was no surprise.
"The mademoiselle is wise to extinguish the flame. So many, if left unattended …" He waved his gloved hand over the smoking black wick. A flicker of fire popped up, and the crowd gasped. "…can cause a disaster of tragic proportions. So many candles…" Another wave of his hand and the candle disappeared from his black glove, creating another gasp. "…should never be allowed."
The amateur magician sneered and crossed his arms over his chest. "Clearly the wick wasn't fully extinguished. And anyone can pull the old candle up one's sleeve."
"You think so, monsieur?" Erik said dryly and opened one side of his coat, withdrawing the candle from his interior breast pocket, which caused more gasps. He held out his other hand palm-up. "But you see, I need no wick." And with a little twist of his hand and brush of his fingers, he brought fire dancing up to his gloved fingertips.
"Mon Dieu," the man muttered while the crowd's exclamations grew even more amazed.
Erik directed his attention toward Christine, taking note of her features. Pale and stricken. Confused. The slow blink of her eyes, so wide, as if she was coming to some sort of inner awareness…
It was time to wrap up this impromptu performance. The fire disappeared from his hand.
"As I previously stated, too many open flames left unattended are reckless in such surroundings. Allow me to help alleviate the problem." He held the candle aloft and waved his other hand along its length. A puff of smoke – nothing like the fire bomb he used at the Bal Masque – and when it cleared, he held a white rose, the candle once again missing.
The crowd oohed and ahhed.
"For the mademoiselle's aid," he said, bending to offer the rose down to Christine.
She blinked, staring at the partially opened bud, and slowly brought her hand upward to receive it. The crowd broke into enthusiastic applause, and Erik gave a curt bow then nimbly took the two stairs down to join her. She had not ceased dazedly to look at the rose.
It was not red. There was no black ribbon. Often gentlemen gave women flowers.
"I hope I did not upset you by accepting his challenge," he said as he took hold of her arm above the elbow and began to walk with her. "I have never been able to refuse one."
"No," she murmured so quietly he could barely hear her above the melee of people swarming all around. She turned her eyes up, focusing intently on his blue lenses. "So, you are a musician and a magician. Well accomplished at both."
He did not mistake the strangled sound to her words, as if she was barely keeping calm, arriving to a theory she did not want to reach. Nor did he wish to let her.
"I would imagine all boys at some point of their lives are enthralled by tricks of magic. I learned the skill in my youth, during my travels," he divulged, something he had never told Christine as the Phantom. For all she knew, he had dwelled beneath the Opera House his entire life.
"Oh..." she exhaled faintly with soft surprise. "And where did your travels take you?"
She seemed almost desperate to know. It trembled on the tip of his tongue to reply with the truth, until he remembered the many stories he had told her as a child, of Persia. He certainly had no wish for her to draw parallels.
"Nowhere. Everywhere. On a ship, out to sea, and the many ports found along the way."
Deciding it would be prudent to swiftly redirect the conversation to the moment at hand, he looked down at her basket still overflowing with tickets.
"Shall we find an item for you to trade for those?"
She glanced down at the basket hanging over her forearm. "There is so much here, I cannot decide."
"There is no need to rush a decision. Feel free to take your time."
She smiled, her previous ease returning, and he knew relief that the awkward moment had passed. Arm in arm, they strolled from table to table, past small lamps with tiers of crystals, painted porcelain figurines, table clocks, china tea sets, clay pottery – every item imaginable.
Suddenly she seemed to brighten and unclasped her hold from his arm, hurrying to a table in the corner like an excited child. Curious as to her sudden delight, he took a step to follow when the slight tap of fingers at his shoulder blade had him whirl around. The older woman with hair of silver pulled back in a bun took a shocked step in retreat at his irate response. He was unaccustomed to being touched but realized that to strike out would be a Phantom's move and withheld the acidic words that begged to pour forth. Thanks to the change of mask, they saw only a normal man.
"I apologize, monsieur, I never meant to alarm you," the woman said, pressing her fingers to the cameo at her ruffled throat. "I am Madame Pettigrew, the chairwoman of this bazaar, and I simply had to express how stupendous I thought your performance was..."
With half an ear toward the woman who prattled on, his mind on Christine, Erik distantly nodded.
"…and I was wondering if you would consider doing another performance."
"No, I am sorry," he said vaguely. "It was a one-time event."
He pivoted to see Christine hand over her basket, the craftsman taking a bunch of tickets from it then wrapping whatever she had purchased in a piece of newspaper and handing it over to her.
The woman stepped up beside him. "Are you certain I cannot persuade you to change your mind, monsieur...?"
By the tone of her voice, she waited for him to supply his name.
"No." He watched Christine tuck her wrapped purchase into her basket then turned his full attention to the meddlesome chairwoman. "Are you aware there is only one exit in this establishment?"
"Well, yes," she said a bit perplexed. "It is a hotel."
"And are you also aware that with the myriad of open flames you have scattered about the room, one careless bump into a table could result in disastrous consequences? Should a fire break out, the stampede for safety through such an inferior exit could result in pandemonium, injuries – even death."
"Yes, I see. I hadn't realized," she said with mounting apprehension.
"Next time, Madame, consider more wisely."
Christine rejoined him, her face bright. "Hello…" she said in some curiosity. "I am Mademoiselle Daaé." She struck out her hand for the woman to shake but received only the lift of an arrogant brow.
"Madame Pettigrew," she returned loftily.
"If you will excuse us," Erik said through clenched teeth, reminding himself that he was no longer the Phantom who cast threats and never would be again. "Christine, my dear, there is something I wish for you to see."
Without waiting for an answer, he pressed his hand to the back of her waist and urged her away from the despicable woman.
"It seems, perhaps, I am also not an expert at social skills," she mildly berated herself. "Where I come from, a handshake between strangers, even women, is acceptable."
"Forget the old cow - you did nothing wrong," he quickly assured. "Now come, I think you will find this of interest…"
He escorted her to an area he had previously seen and recognized. A round contraption with images of a jockey painted inside stood on a table against the wall. At Christine's confused tilt of her head, he explained –
"It is a zoetrope. The next step into the realm of moving pictures."
"Moving pictures?"
"Bend down to look through the slats," he instructed, motioning to openings approximately several inches in height that ran around the entire frame. As she stooped to waist level, he set the zoetrope in motion and lowered himself down beside her.
She turned her face to him, amazement shining from her eyes.
"The horse is actually running!" she said in awe.
"One day, pictures that move to mirror reality will be quite commonplace."
"It is so magnificent," she brought her attention back to the zoetrope, and together they watched through the spinning slats until it slowed. "Thank you for showing me this. It gives me a strange sort of hope, as silly as that may sound."
"Hope?"
"That change can be a good thing."
Christine began to stand to her feet, too swiftly. Swaying, she grabbed his arm so that she wouldn't lose her balance.
Erik wrapped his hand to the other side of her waist, drawing her against him as slowly he stood the rest of the way with her. With her cheek against his shoulder, she pivoted her face slightly to look at him, and he quietly gasped to realize how close her lips were to his.
They held that stance until he realized the gradual descent of his head and the slow ascent of hers. Abruptly he pulled back before their lips could touch, though he kept his hand at her waist until he felt certain she had regained equilibrium.
"I overstepped; I apologize."
"No, it's alright," Christine was quick to reassure though clearly the ease between them had sprung like the broken string of a violin. "You did nothing wrong."
Christine fidgeted, shifting her basket from one arm to the other.
"Perhaps we should conclude the day's festivities," he suggested. "It would be wise for you to return to your room at the boarding house and rest."
His suggestion was not an unwelcome one – she still tired rather easily after her wretched illness – but Christine sensed there was more.
"You really don't like social events, do you?"
"Being amongst hordes of people is not my preferred course of the day."
She looked at him in some surprise. "Yet you came."
"You asked it of me."
A smile ticked the corners of her lips. "I am grateful that you did. And I will now do you the favor of leaving."
He chuckled softly at her twist on their reason to go, and her heart leapt to hear it. His reaction was minimal, rarely did he show emotion on his face, his features often stiff when she could see them, but she could not help be pleased that she had made him laugh.
"First, I must find Theresa and let her know, and…" She lifted her basket of tickets. "I have all these left to use. Not that I need to. There is nothing more I truly want."
"I see your friend and her escort near the display of miniature ships in bottles. Shall we?"
Christine nodded and Erik carefully herded her through the crowd and to the others. Once there, Christine expressed their intention to depart. Mademoiselle Ledoux swiftly put a hand to her arm.
"Oh, but you can't go, Christine – not yet. Are you not enjoying the proceedings?"
"It has been delightful, but I still tire easily. Monsieur de Ranier will see me home."
"I'll not hear of it," Madame Crispin suddenly entered their small circle from wherever she had been lurking. "Heavens, child! You cannot go off alone together. I gave my word to Theresa's aunt that I would oversee this outing."
"Really, Madame Crispin, I appreciate the concern but it isn't necessary…"
Erik considered the numerous times he had given lessons to Christine late at night in the chapel ... later leading her five levels beneath the earth for her vocal training, shut off completely from the world, with instances of her spending more than one night in the bedchamber he had crafted for her.
Never had he given his actions a second thought. In the world of the theatre, the need for a sterling reputation was trivial. But he could now see that in the common life of these interlopers, it was ridiculously important.
Recognizing that Christine's resolve was weakening, ready to surrender to their will against her wishes, he intervened.
"Need I remind you that I acted as physician to Mademoiselle Daaé during her illness? Now, I deem it necessary that she get some rest."
Christine looked up at him with gratitude in her eyes, plucked something from her basket, slipping the parcel with some difficulty into her reticule, then offered the basket to Mademoiselle Ledoux.
"I want you to have the rest of my tickets."
"Oh, Christine. Are you certain you cannot stay? Monsieur Delacourt mentioned that they are having a demonstration later with one of the newer inventions. Something to do with lighting without a flame."
"That does sound intriguing, but I have seen so much already."
"I fear you are making a grave mistake, mademoiselle," Madame Crispin warned.
"Perhaps we should all return," Mademoiselle Ledoux said reluctantly.
"No, please, I would feel wretched if you ended your fun here on my account." Christine smiled to encourage her. "In truth, I think the idea of a chaperone was more for you than me. What does your aunt care for my welfare? I am no more than a stranger to her. And I can vouch for Monsieur de Ranier - he has always been nothing but a perfect gentleman…"
Erik's fragile patience had worn paper-thin by the time Madame Crispin grudgingly agreed – who the hell was she to interfere?! – and the many covert and pointed looks Monsieur Laurent gave Christine did nothing to alleviate his rising ire.
"Shall we go, mademoiselle," Erik urged, not a question and barely civil, taking her arm and steering her away from the meddlesome trio.
He drew Christine through the revolving door and outside, surprised to see the latter part of twilight upon them, and hailed an open carriage waiting nearby. Thankfully the air was not freezing; like Paris, winter's breath did not often blow too harshly here.
Once he helped her safely inside and claimed the opposite seat, giving the driver their destination, Erik exhaled a long breath as the carriage at last pulled into the street.
"I apologize for that," Christine said softly. "They mean well."
"My dear, you have nothing for which to apologize. Though it puzzles me as to why you should care so strongly what the devil they think."
Christine pensively nodded and settled her neck back against the rolled leather headrest, lifting her gaze to the dark violet sky. "The world in which I came from such things failed to matter. Being a woman of virtue did not truly matter – not when society labeled a woman as loose simply by the place she lived and worked. I learned that bitter truth during my last three months in the one home I have known nearly my entire lifetime…"
Erik struggled to smother his returning temper; no doubt her sad, bitter words referred to that insufferable boy, and he wondered with a dark curiosity what the fool Vicomte's imbecilic family had said to Christine to paint such misery on her lovely face. To demand that she tell him would hardly be something a new acquaintance would do, and not for the first time he brooded over how difficult this new masquerade was to undertake.
"I have actually been thinking about this a lot lately. I am new to Marseille," she continued, "and hope to find a fresh start here. I have always tried to live a decent life and be good, but it is not enough. I must also conform to society's rules."
He frowned. "Do you regret leaving with me tonight?"
"No –" Abruptly she lifted her head from the headrest and straightened to look at him. "No," she said more softly. "You have more than proven that you are a gentleman of the highest regard, as I told them. You took care of me when I was ill. I trust you. But sadly, people will think what they will think, despite what we know as truth."
Though he was hardly a gentleman as she steadfastly claimed, Erik knew her words held harsh verity, having dealt with unjustified hatred and loathing from the time he was a child. Most mortals judged by what they came to believe with their eyes, not with their hearts, and what they could not understand through sight, they feared.
He had thought Christine different – she had been different – until that fool boy turned her head with his talk of betrayal, instilling new fears and uncertainty inside her timorous heart.
Once more she rested her head back, ostensibly to look up at the stars twinkling and scattered across the ever-darkening canvas of sky. She seemed at peace, for which he was grateful, and silently he watched her upturned face as a multitude of thoughts seemed to race through her mind.
He wished he could catch even one.
x
At the boarding house, Erik paid the driver and with his hand beneath her elbow, escorted Christine up the outside steps and indoors. He took the first four flights of stairs with her to her room and waited until she unlocked and opened her door, then tipped his hat to her.
"I bid you goodnight, mademoiselle."
"Wait!"
He half turned in surprise when she suddenly clutched his sleeve. As if realizing what she had done, instantly she dropped her hand to her side.
"I will see you tomorrow for our lesson?"
Having dreaded that she would conclude them, due to their recent conversation, he experienced a wave of relief.
"You do not think it would compromise your reputation?" he asked very softly then cursed his fool tongue to put the idea into her mind.
She hesitated a moment in concern. "Perhaps, if in future we left the door open while I take my lessons? It would lend a suggestion of respectability to the situation."
The idea horrified him – to allow any and all passersby to see inside his chamber – when he had always blockaded himself securely within his rooms, away from the world.
But, for Christine…
"Very well. If it will put your mind at ease." He forced the wretched words past dry lips.
Her grateful smile almost made his concession bearable.
"One more thing," she said, seeming suddenly timid. She dug into her reticule and brought forth the small parcel wrapped in newspaper. She glanced down at it a moment, then handed it over. "This is for you."
He stared, as if frozen in place, before slowly accepting the package he had seen her purchase at the charity bazaar.
For an eternal moment he held it in one gloved hand.
"A small token of gratitude for all you have done for me. Cinnamon cakes just didn't seem like enough." She gave a tense little giggle.
He parted his lips to speak, but no words would get past the lump lodged in his throat.
"You don't have to open it here, of course," Christine nervously said. "It's fine if you wish to wait."
A creak on the stairs from somewhere below alerted them that soon their solitude could be disrupted.
"Thank you," he gruffly said at last, bringing his spectacled gaze to her face.
Tentatively she lifted a hand to press her fingertips to his lapel. "Thank you for being my escort to the bazaar." Her eyes shone and lips parted as if she wished to say or do more, but she only smiled again and entered her room, turning once more to look up at him.
"Goodnight then. I will see you tomorrow."
He barely nodded.
Once the door softly closed, Erik might have stayed rooted in shock at her threshold forever, if not for the stir of noise from below coming closer. Not wishing to confront other boarders at present, he hastened up the final flight of stairs and through the door to his room, firmly shutting himself in and turning the key in the lock.
Lighting a kerosene lamp, he took a seat beside it and stared down at the wrapped parcel in his hand.
A gift. She had used her tickets to procure for him a gift…
His first ever to receive.
Still stunned to acknowledge it, he stared down at what he held.
The pastries she had given him as payment for her lessons.
The ring she had folded into his hand what seemed an eternity ago, but that felt more like a rejection of his proposal, of his very self, though as the Daroga reminded him the ring had not been his to give…
He shook his head free of such conflicted thoughts, so long he had tried to work through the confusion they created. She did not know him presently as that man, as her Angel… and he could not help but feel a prickle of jealous hurt that she was giving a token of her esteem to what she assumed to be a male acquaintance she had known only a matter of weeks.
Fool! That is what he was – had he not started this new masquerade? For all the right reasons, yes, never again to hurt her or invade her life. She was never his to hold, never belonged to him…
But did she now have an interest, even an attraction to his new persona? If it were true, how in blazes was he supposed to manage that?!
He brought his attention back to the gift, at last slowly almost reverently tearing away the paper to reveal a small, black, lacquered box, gilded with a gold leaf design around the top rim. In its center a tree had been painted with a crescent moon behind of the same gold.
He noticed the top was hinged and lifted the lid.
A gentle melody began to play. Instantly he recognized its similarity to the haunting lullaby he performed each night, with slight variations and sweet chimes of bells rather than the emotive strings of a violin.
His eyes grew moist at her thoughtfulness, and he barely prevented himself from taking the flight of stairs down to her room. In his current state of mind, he would likely do something rash and foolish that he would later come to regret – perhaps sweep her in his arms and into a kiss, such as the one they once shared that filled his thoughts and dreams each night.
Such as the one fantasized about and almost acted upon tonight at the bazaar...
But no. She did not want that, want him as he truly was, and for what seemed the hundredth time he resolved to be to her only a guardian angel as she struggled to make her way alone in the world.
Still, there was something he could do for her now.
Taking up his bow and violin, Erik approached the knothole directly above her room. There, he poured out his heart and played a mini concerto, both passionate and soothing, traits of what he wished to become for his lovely protégé…
A wish, all it could ever be.
xXx
A/N: Things are sweet and peaceful between them...so nice...
But, be prepared... (muwahaha)