A/N: This chapter is dedicated to 'Reader'. You know who you are. ;D

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Ch. 9— Tea and Conversation… of a sort

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Erik had spoken the truth of his voice to her.

Well alright, he had spoken the truth to a certain extent.

Although he did have the power to 'entrance and enthrall' with his voice, there was nothing mysterious about 'the gift' he'd told Ms. Daae he'd been given since birth. After all, with the right training, anyone could do it.

He had misled her, as he did all who fell deeply enthrall under his 'devil's gift'. He made her think there was some element of the supernatural at work.

However, the truth was far more mundane.

It was a skill he had acquired from a hypnotist when the man did a tour of performances at the Populaire: the opera house where his mother had worked as a housekeeper and of which Erik now owned.

The hypnotic aspect of his voice was a talent Erik had spent years honing to a razor's edge. And although it effected all who could hear it to a certain extent, he had found over the years the influence of his voice had less to do with the subject's intelligence and more to do with their musical ear.

In essence, his voice—the suggestive power of it— was most effective on those musically inclined—those that music truly held in its thrall. And he had also found the more open-minded the person was to the existence of 'magic' or the supernatural, the more susceptible he/she was to the power of suggestion in his voice.

Thus the ruse.

With the way the girl had reacted to his hypnotic suggestions, Erik would not be surprised to learn she was a child of music … nursed at its breast, and with her father a professor…. well, his mind spun with possibilities.

But the only problem was Ms. Daae had professed she hated music which was patently absurd! No one hated music… at least, not all types of music. And she was obviously blessed with a gifted, discerning ear, so… why the hatred?

He toyed with idea of just coming out and asking her why, but with the way he'd acted this morning, he'd be very surprised if his little mouse answered such a personal question, let alone made an appearance any time before breakfast tomorrow.

And it would be well within the bounds of what he deserved.

He forcibly set aside the tumbler in his hand and stood.

The girl had been right in her own teetotalitarian way, but he wasn't ready. No, he wasn't, not to give up this crutch, nor the others he had acquired over the years of war. Absently patting his pocket, Erik reached for a cigarette and drawing his lighter, lit up and inhaled, letting the smoke soothe him.

Oh, he supposed he owed her an apology, but Erik never apologized for the gifts he'd been given, namely his astute powers of observation and comprehension. And he refused to apologize for those advantages he'd been handed in this life.

At an early age, he'd learned the hard way the ways of the world, and he'd fought ruthlessly, clawing and scrabbling to get where he was today. After all, his had been no primrose path, God rest his poor, beleaguered mother's soul.

His mother…

His mother certainly wouldn't have approved of his new smoking habit… nor of the numerous bottles of suds he now kept hidden throughout the house. No, she wouldn't have approved of that at all… nor his treatment of the girl.

Deciding that perhaps he'd been a bit too rash in hypnotizing her and forcing her compliance, Erik limped confidently through the cottage, not stumbling in the slightest, in his quest to find his little nurse.

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Looking up at the weak sunshine from her position near the bluff, Christine leaned back in one of the two Adirondack chairs that were facing the cliff's edge in the backyard of the little cottage. It was a watery-gray day, the sky matching the endless steel color of the sea. But it wasn't raining, and she thanked her lucky stars for that.

Early in the afternoon, she had finally finished the last bit of tidying up the cottage needed. The floors had been polished and waxed until they shone, the place cleared completely of dust, clutter and debris, the two bedrooms aired, changed, and prepared for habitation—for Mr. D'Anton had been sleeping on the couch—and every dish that wasn't broken, washed and put away.

Oh, how she ached!

But she couldn't sit down, not in that place where she was still so much a stranger and very much unwelcome. A place where he was sure to be, and it felt too cowardly to hole herself up in her room. And so, Christine had taken herself out of the unfamiliar house that she now called home and gone to the backyard where she could look out to the sea.

Not for the first time a thought occurred to heras a little voice in the back of her mind whispered: If you find being here so intolerable, why do you stay?

She needed the money, she tried to tell herself.

But that wasn't it… not really. If she was just there for the money, she would have taken Mr. D'Anton up on his offer to double her already more than generous salary and left immediately.

So why did she continue to stay when he'd made it so abundantly clear she should leave?

Knowing what she did about the man and his entrancing voice; the fact that he could do that to her still mystified her. And hours later, Christine was still having a hard time believing it truly happened. Yet, it had. He'd forced her compliance in the matter of the alcohol just as he'd done with the telephone when he was at the hospital, and he'd done so ruthlessly.

If she had any sense whatsoever, she would be on the next train out of Le Havre tonight if possible—going wherever it would take her.

But that was it, if she listened to her father… and obliquely to what Mr. D'Anton had just told her… those that fell under his voice's power were lacking sense.

And her father had often accused her of being: 'a fanciful dreamer not fit for anything fancy'; the memory of those words stung. But it was the words Mr. D'Anton had used that worried her: 'those of weaker intellects' who were more prone to the suggestive nature of his voice.

Christine had always prided herself on her quick mind if not her ready wit.

She was too introspective and cared too much for others' thoughts and feelings to speak her mind plainly without consideration. But she did read and collect information like a sponge, and she stored it, never knowing when one day it would come in handy… like the Latin with Mr. D'Anton… or her ability to make soda bread with the ingredients she had brought and the ones she found in the larder. Granted, she'd had to toss the first loaf away because it was burnt beyond all recognition, but the next one she'd made was perfect, and it was this one they would be having with dinner.

That was if she ever mustered enough courage to go back in the cottage and make it.

It was cold out, exposed as she was in the backyard to the November chill, but she'd brought along a thermos of hot tea, a book, and a blanket in addition to her warmest coat. And she was currently ensconced in one of her favorite gothic romances: Wuthering Heights.

Putting aside her own cares and troubles, she lost herself in someone else's for a time and was transported to the wild moors of England and the tumultuous romance of Catherine and her Heathcliff.

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Catherine. Christine heard his voice calling her name on the wind.

"Ms. Daae… are you here?"

"Heathcliff, I'm here…"

Catherine, a softly yearning voice intoned.

"Ms. Daae….?"

"I'm coming, Heathcliff!"

She awoke with a start to the feel of Mr. D'Anton's hand groping for her shoulder, the taste of the fictional Heathcliff's name still on her lips. She blushed coming back to herself and noticed the book still open in her lap with her thermos of tea gone cold sitting next to her.

Keeping hold of her shoulder, Mr. D'Anton spoke tersely, "Tell me you have not been out here all afternoon, Nurse Daae."

Still blinking blearily from her unplanned nap, she looked up to find Mr. D'Anton staring down at the place where she sat, a disapproving scowl on his scarred face, making him appear even more severe in the shadowed evening light.

Christine looked around. Dusk had fallen, and it was burgeoning very much on dark.

She had finished Wuthering Heights earlier in the day and had only closed her eyes for just a second, or so it had seemed, as she imagined her Heathcliff and the wild, grassy moors. "I—I guess I fell asleep," she answered mystified for it was completely unlike her to do so.

"Well, come in and take a warm bath, my girl. You'll catch your death sitting out here all day with none but a thin blanket…" As if on cue, Christine sneezed, and Mr. D'Anton tsk'd. "That is, if you haven't already. Go on in, I'll make you some tea."

He ushered her ahead of him, and Christine went, turning to watch his progress.

Limping slightly, Mr. D'Anton felt the chair she had been sitting in to get his bearings before he made careful, measured steps as he retraced his way to the backdoor of the cottage. From her vantage point in the hallway, Christine saw him close then lock the door securely and begin to putter about the kitchen.

She shut the door to the bathroom quietly behind her.

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Erik had been worried, more worried than he cared to admit when he couldn't find her in the little cottage, especially as the hours passed and day edged towards night.

At first, he thought she'd gone for a walk, but then, when she didn't return, his concern increased. What if, after the way he'd treated her, she had left him for good? He'd even gone to her room and drew a measure of comfort from the fact that her things appeared to still be there.

But the fact that they were had opened the door to a whole other slough of worries and concerns.

The images in his mind's eye grew more and more disturbed as each moment passed and she still hadn't returned. All sorts of terrifying things began to occur to him that could have happened to her: a wandering German soldier, perhaps she'd gotten lost on her walk, perhaps she'd even met with an undetonated grenade?

The possibilities were endless, and the idea to check the backyard of the cottage was born from desperation.

When Erik had first arrived to the cottage, he'd teased himself with the idea of going out on a lark and tumbling over the edge of the cliff. The idea held a romantic symmetry for him, and it became a kind of balm to tell himself that he could always do it if he wanted to. And it wouldn't be considered suicide, not for the foolish blind man who only went out for some 'air'.

And though he often opened the backdoor and teased himself with thoughts of death, he had never taken a step outside to actually face it. In fact, he had locked the door against it, giving himself time, always keeping it as an option—the final option should he ultimately decide to end things.

The backyard was the last place to check before he would have to consider her missing; his hands shook as he unlocked the door.

But this time, he wasn't envisioning going out there to kill himself, and he had drawn courage from the thought. It was his little nurse that caused him to face the crucible he had forged for himself—to face this particular terrifying hell. And using memory, and every sense he still possessed, Erik had made his way to where he remembered the two Adirondack chairs being near the cliff's edge.

If he lost his bearings, misplaced his steps in count, he would be over the cliff to the sharp rocks below before he knew it.

When he had called out her name, and she mumbled something back in her sleep, he had felt his knees go weak in relief. He had called her name again, a nerve-wracking game of Blind Man's Bluff, and she had answered back with something that sounded very much like another man's name.

And as he now busied himself with the preparations for her tea, Erik's mind replayed those few seconds before he had located her chair, and he concluded that yes, she had indeed muttered the name of another.

He felt a possessive jealousy take hold of him. It was gone in an instant, but still, the emotion was there…

Heathcliff… she had said Heathcliff. Archaic… surely the name was of a fictitious character and not his Ms. Daae yearning for a lover. The thought churned his stomach.

Erik had picked up the book that slid from her lap when she rose from the chair, tucking it under his arm for safekeeping. And he wished with all his heart he could read the title, having a feeling the book would tell him much about his little nurse and her romantic sensibilities.

As he began filling the kettle with water for her tea, he realized she had not moved things around the small kitchen for which he was grateful. In her setting of things to rights, she had, in point of fact, kept them rigidly the way they'd been before he'd decided in his blind rage to redecorate the cottage as he sightlessly saw fit.

Grudgingly, he had to admit the girl had been here less than two days, and already, she'd improved his quality of life drastically. All day today, it had been easier for him to navigate the cottage for he had noticed that not once had he tripped or stumbled on something in his way.

He was embarrassed to admit it, and he would never divulge it to her, but he'd misplaced his shoes the week before, and after a frantic bout of trying—and failing—to find them, had resigned himself to cuts and splinters from the numerous spindly-legged tables he'd destroyed. And for all he knew, it could've been the same damn one, he just kept shuffling and reshuffling through it, scattering the broken pieces thither and yon.

And yes, alright, it was easier to count his steps when he could focus on them and not have to worry about picking up a stray splinter or encountering a shard of glass.

Feeling around the cleanly organized counter, he reached out until he came across the canister of loose-leaf tea Nadir always kept for his guests. He opened it, fanning the lid under his nose to make certain he'd grabbed the right blend.

It would be just his luck to exchange the cardamom tea he was intending to make for Ms. Daae for Advieh: one of Nadir's more daring spice blends, and then serve it to her. And his little mouse would drink it and never let him know… for well Erik was coming to realize that this was Ms. Christine Daae's way.

No, it seemed she was more the type to accept things as they were with silence and resignation.

But he was used to tempestuous rages from the opposite sex.

The opera house was full of its share of divas from the lowliest of the wait staff to those occupying his dressing rooms with stars upon the door. His former diva had never once followed a hypnotic command issued from his voice.

And that fact alone should have been a red flag.

But at the time, he had liked Carlotta's fire… had found her passion for bedroom sport equal to that of his own—a rare commodity in his experience— and he had liked the fact that she refused to kowtow to him in any way—including obeying his vocal summons.

To him, she truly had been his 'little queen', and Erik had spoiled her lavishly because of it.

The kettle shrieked, jolting him from his thoughts, and with potholder in hand, he carefully reached to move it from the burner, turning off the gas as well. In the three months he'd spent in the cottage, he'd become somewhat adept at making tea… mostly as a hang-over cure, but sometimes, he would substitute his typical cup of 'hair o' the dog' for the cardamom blend he was going to serve Ms. Daae.

Gently reaching for a cup and saucer in the exposed shelf to his left, Erik found what he was looking for, dismayed when he realized there were only a scant few dishes of the once-beautiful set remaining.

Taking two pinches of tea, he put it in the cup and poured hot water over it, letting it steep. He would have to find out if she preferred milk or sugar in her tea, but that knowledge would have to be for later. In order to stave off the cold he was almost certain she was going to get from her stunt this afternoon, Erik decided to serve it to her straight, considering it punishment for her carelessness.

Carefully counting his steps, he shuffled his way to the bathroom and gently rapped upon the door. "Ms. Daae, I have your tea."

He heard startled lapping of the water as she sat up, and then her soft reply, "Umm, c-could you just leave it by the door, sir? I'll be out in a moment."

Erik tsk'd and opened the door, thinking her foolish for not having locked it in the first place.

He heard her gasp, and then scramble, more than likely clothing herself with the perfumed bubbles she used… or he dearly hoped she used. How he wished he could see the sight!

Instead, he inhaled deeply, contenting himself with her wonderful scent.

He carefully walked to the lip of the tub, stopping when he felt the porcelain edge meet his shin. "Ms. Daae," he modified his tone to hold just the right hint of bad-temperedness, "I just went through an entire production to make this for you, and you're going to drink it… hot." He heard more water displace as she moved further away from him, and he held out the cup to her. "If it's any consolation, my dear nurse, you've got nothing I haven't seen before and nothing now that I can see." He raised his eyebrows, smiling wolfishly, just envisioning his prim, little nurse in her tub over-flowing with bubbles as she choked in indignation.

Still, she did not utter a word, and Erik began to feel foolish standing there like a statue—arms extended, waiting for her to take the cup.

Finally losing patience, he ordered, "Take the cup and saucer, Ms. Daae. This is not a request." By the water's lapping, he heard her moving towards his outstretched hands, and then his burden was being lifted. Yet, something—some effervescent substance remained, and Erik rubbed his forefinger and thumb together, tracing it as he gave an inward smile.

It seemed she did bathe with bubbles after all.

"Now, drink," he requested of her. The small rattle of the cup against the saucer as it was being lifted told him she was complying with his thinly-veiled request. "By the way, I would dearly like to know what book it was you were reading when you fell asleep so inauspiciously in the November chill. Was it something boring, Ms. Daae? A dull history or even duller biography? You strike me as the type who would enjoy such reading. Tell me, am I wrong?" Oh, but he was baiting his little mouse, trying to stir her from her hole, trying to rouse a spark of fire in her.

Not a peep did she utter however, not even a rattle of the saucer or a lapping of water betrayed her location or her thoughts. Erik toyed with the idea of seating himself on the lip of the tub to further discomfit her, provoke a response, but he was very much afraid he'd disgrace himself and fall into the bath, and then, where would they be?

Hmm, his mind seriously contemplated the notion before discounting it once more, filing it under 'fantasies to hopefully be enacted at a later date'.

He heard the cup and saucer rattle with an air of finality, and then her soft voice whispered, "Mr. D'Anton, I've finished my tea. Thank you." Her tone betrayed none but the most perfunctory of courtesy, and Erik took this as his cue to depart. He held out his hands for both cup and saucer, and unerringly, they were placed in his grip once more; this time without a trace of bubbles.

Unwilling to cede the field just yet, Erik stated, "If ever you find yourself in need of someone to wash your back, Nurse Daae, please don't hesitate to ask. As it happens, I'm a dab hand at such matters and offer my services willingly—free of charge; which is more than I can say for others who reside under this roof."

He expected at the very least an outraged gasp or perhaps even a wave of water tossed at his retreating back.

Silence.

Her silence was her only response.

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A/N: You know, reviews are truly the only form of payment we get for time spent sweating over a comma. :P

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