Soft breathing, interrupted every few breaths with a light snort convinces Christine Madame Giry is asleep. Many a night she and Meg argued as to which of them would roll her on her side so they could sleep.
Christine would be particularly disturbed because sleep came to her with difficulty. All the years living on the road with Pappa had her wary of giving in to her weariness even when they had the good fortune to be sleeping in an inn. This was especially true after the incident with the robber.
Even so, she never begrudged the fierce, but kind woman who took her in when Pappa died. Heaven only knows what might have happened to her without the Giry's generosity. There was also the fact she herself sings in her sleep.
"You should hear how it sounds with Maman snoring and you singing," Meg said one morning when Christine woke up particularly grumpy.
"I sing in my sleep?"
"Not that anyone would hire you to perform, but it is singing of a sort."
"No one ever told me!"
"How many people have you shared a room with?"
"Just Pappa…and Mama when she was still alive."
"He probably did not want to hurt your feelings…or perhaps he just enjoyed the sound," Meg laughed. "When you marry, it might be an interesting topic of conversation."
"Oh, my, I do not think I would be able to sleep at all."
"Do not be a silly, if a man loves you he would not care," Meg assured her. "Do I dance?"
"I am not certain dancing would be the word for the way you toss around. I must admit there are times when I am concerned you might fall off the bed."
Meg's laughter was incredibly boisterous for one with such a delicate frame. "We are quite the pair."
"Trio!"
Many nights since living with Erik, she would sit on the floor just outside the music room and listen to him play. There were moments when she considered slipping into the room to sit in his massive leather chair, but something held her back. Despite their newfound closeness, she did not wish to press him. There was a hesitancy on both their parts and intruding on his composing was too intimate an act.
There was also the recollection of times when Pappa was so involved in his music, he seemed to no longer be there with her. The one time she interrupted him, he went a little mad – so caught up was he in the music.
"What? Who? Why did you disturb me?" he shouted at her. Laying the violin down on the ground he began pacing in a circle, his hands pressed against his ears.
"I am sorry, Pappa – I made some tea…I thought you might like some."
"Tea? Why would I want tea?"
The look in his pale blue eyes frightened her. "I am sorry."
Then, almost as quickly as his anger rose up, it disappeared. "Sorry? Whatever are you sorry for, little one," he said, his voice back to normal. "Is that tea? How thoughtful. Come, let us sit on this fine log and I shall tell you a story about the Angel of Music. Would you like that?"
As her voice developed with Erik's training, they bonded through the music. Some of the arias she was learning carried her away – her entire body was filled with only the music – nothing else mattered. It was through working with him she understood what her Pappa and now Erik was experiencing.
There was no such fear of disturbing Madame since most of the time she would grumble a little, then simply roll over on her own. Tonight, however, she was glad the older woman was so fatigued she fell to sleep almost before she was under the covers.
Slipping out of the bed, she gave Isis a pet on the head, and held a finger to her lips advising the cat to stay put. Happy to have the entirety of Christine's pillow to herself, the tuxedo was more than amenable to Christine's suggestion.
Tonight's conversation about death and killing disturbed her more than she was willing to acknowledge earlier. When Madame brought up Raoul again, her mind could focus on nothing else.
Erik was her choice – however strange it appeared to others – the kidnapping as some called it was not awful at all. Tonight he was so solicitous of her when he walked her up to her bedroom. There was nothing he would not do for her. Would he kill for her? That M. Khan was the person who actually shot Raoul did not alter the fact that Erik pulled out his garrot when Raoul threatened them.
Of course, the action was to defend both of them from Raoul's attack…nevertheless, after hearing about young Reza, she wondered if killing was something he was so accustomed to, he might act when a threat was not present. Or what he might consider a threat. Reza's death was, of course, a mercy as Pere Charles said.
What if Phillippe came here? Would Erik consider that enough of a challenge? What might she do if Phillippe threatened Erik…or M. Khan…or her? After all, she was the reason Raoul became murderous. The one time she met the comte, he viewed her with cold gray eyes.
"So you are the young woman my brother is smitten with."
"Monsieur?"
"I am Comte Phillippe de Chagny…Raoul's brother."
The curtsey she offered him was awkward, unpracticed. His tone indicated he felt her to be beneath him. "I am honored to meet you, M. le Comte."
"He tells me you and your father are working here at the inn."
"Yes. We clean up and Pappa helps with the garden."
"And you perform?"
His interest surprised her. With a lessening of her anxiety, she blurted out, "Oh, yes, Pappa plays the violin and I often sing with him. The people here seem to like us, in fact the owner said he might keep us on into the fall."
The next day they were told to finish out the week. Summer was over and the innkeeper decided they would not be needed.
Pappa did not understand the change of heart. He so loved the sea and his work in the garden reminded him of the farm, renewing his love for the earth. What with the audience for his music and a steady income, life was the best it had been for both of them since they left Sweden. Christine did not wish to hurt him any further by telling him about her meeting with the comte. Perhaps the two events were unrelated.
"No, Madame, I have no regrets about Raoul," she says to herself as she slips into her lavender chenille robe. "I should have no regrets either when Phillippe meets his end." She hates herself for thinking in such a way, In fact, when she showed Madame the pink dress, it was affirming her love for Erik, pushing the horrid thought from her mind.
She simply has to think…to pray. So much has happened, she cannot remember when she last devoted any time to prayer. The chapel would likely be empty now. The quiet of the beautiful room built for the purpose of commune with God was what she needs right now.
Closing the door softly behind her, she pads down the carpeted hallway to the stairway leading to the foyer. Grateful for the gas light at the landing, she makes her way down the stairs to the chapel.
The slight rush of air takes him out of his thoughts. Reaching into his jacket, he removes the revolver from its holster. Sliding silently from the pew, Nadir creeps toward the back of the chapel. Both Erik and Pere Charles assured him they were both exhausted and were going to bed.
There was no doubt the holy man was telling the truth. While he was somewhat skeptical about Erik's assurance, the man was never one to sleep – perhaps his being older than the days when he knew him…and feeling more relaxed now. Certainly his life was no longer being threatened with his every breath.
"Oh, you are awake."
"I take it you believed me to be asleep."
"Well, no…not exactly."
"You came to my room in the middle of the night, yet you are surprised to find me awake, but then deny the fact," Erik sniggered. "You are slipping, Daroga. What is it you want?"
"Only making my rounds…as is my job."
"You are the daroga of Mazandaran Province, but you are checking on prisoners like a lowly servant."
"You are not a prisoner."
"Is that so? Then why is my door locked from the outside…and why cannot I not leave now if I wish to go."
"Do you? Wish to go?"
"Once the palace is completed, he will want me dead – too many secrets only the two of us share," Erik said, sitting up on his cot. "That is when I will wish to leave here. For the moment you have no need to check up on me. I should like to get more sleep to be honest."
"I will honor your wishes."
"About the sleep?"
"That and assisting when you wish to leave."
"Indeed?"
"You have my word."
No, whoever opened the door to the chapel, it is not Erik. All the women retired earlier. Who then?
Cursing himself now for not completing the survey of the house – making certain all was secure. The conversation with Erik and Pere Charles proved to be too enticing. After which the quiet solitude of the room gave him the perfect venue to review their conversation and the possible danger for all of them. So anxious was he to have the entire incident with Raoul resolved, he forgot about the nature of the nobility and their sense of honor.
As much as Erik's life was possibly in danger – his was even more at risk. By coming here, he opened the door to all of them being threatened.
Reaching the end of the aisle, he flattens himself against the wall next to the doorway and cocks his revolver.
The pillowed bench in the bay window at the end of the hallway provides both a comfortable place to sit – far superior to the pews in the chapel. The other advantage being he will not likely be disturbed. The only light was at the head of the stairs and was dimmed so only the faintest glow of the gas flame was present.
Seeking a place to be alone in this house is proving to be decidedly difficult. Of course, he could make use of the fine bedroom Mme. Marchand showed him when they arrived. His bags were there and he did make use of the room to change his clothing.
As a place to sleep…or rest, the quarters prove to be too close…only the door and one window available as exits. A mild sense of claustrophobia enveloped him when the kind lady closed the door behind her, it was all he could do not to run out behind her. The years spent in a cage with Javert's caravan and later in Persia has him wary of spaces too enclosed.
"This room is not a prison," the man called Nadir Khan informed him when escorted to the chambers he would use while working for the Shah. "There is a fine balcony and windows looking out on the garden."
"Do I have the freedom to come and go as I please?"
"It is best if you are escorted. The palace is quite large and, when you begin working at the site of the new palace, you will need transport."
"I am not a child and am quite used to finding my way about…you found me in Russia, after all. How do you think I arrived there?"
"Even so, it is for your safety."
"Putting people in cages is usually for the comfort of the jailer, not the prisoner."
He would rest more easily on this bench with a window behind him and a clear view of anyone approaching from the stairway. There was also the advantage of being able to keep watch over Christine.
However friendly the occupants of this house are, all the talk about the past…and especially the references to Raoul and his brother, has him on edge.
The sound of a door opening alerts him. Christine. Maintaining his silence, he watches as she makes her way to the stairway. Not wishing to intrude on whatever her mission might be, he waits until she reaches the stairway before getting up to follow her.
"I saw you today in the wings," she said when she returned to the apartment her first day back at rehearsals.
"Is that a problem?"
"You promised you would not follow me."
"I was merely checking the equipment."
"Erik, I do not want you following me about anymore."
"But there are those in the world who might wish to harm you."
"Then make yourself known. It is your stealth I object to."
Even so, when they bade one another good night, he assured her he would get some sleep, but old habits are difficult to break. Now he is happy he decided to keep watch. The house was large and she might get lost. That is what he would tell her when she scolded him.
Despite his efforts to sleep, the events of the day, particularly the conversation with Erik and M. Khan finds his mind too restless. Rising from his single bed, he retrieves his cassock, carefully folded over a plain wooden chair, dons it the black garment, picks up his Daily Office and leaves the room.
His underlying uneasiness is relieved by the simple movement to the back of the house steps. Even though there is usually no concern about the doors of the house being locked, Tonight he locked the door at the rear of the house before retiring, a nagging thought at the back of his head suggests he check it once more to be certain.
Padding quietly down the stairs, he contemplates what sort of prayer he might offer for the situation. Erik and Christine's marriage certainly was at the top of his mind, but there was still danger present. Well aware that prayer without action is often futile, a calm conversation with God might direct him as to what action might be taken. All the talk of violence finds him troubled…especially the most recent death of the vicomte. Somehow he senses that, despite the Persian's explanation, there is more of a story to be told.
The back door checked and found to be secure, he makes his way to the front of the house to assure the front door is also locked. Disliking the fear causing him to make these precautions, he finds comfort in the small gesture. Now to the chapel.