Ch. 12— If You Can't Be Good, Be Careful

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He would have to play this carefully… oh so carefully.

With talent such as hers and a professed disdain of music—MUSIC— my god, such music… he would have to lure her, enchant her… perhaps even use the power of his voice to make her sing…

…no, that would never do.

He could not order such a thing of her… at least not with hypnotism. Without knowing her reasons for it, if she was so dead-set against the idea of singing, then hypnotizing her could break her somehow. No, he could not take that risk. But he could lure her into it… perhaps through her willing compliance?

Over the months Erik had been observing her, he'd noticed Ms. Daae was very good at taking orders; she thrived when someone needed her assistance and told her what to do.

She loved to please.

That wasn't a bad thing in his estimation. After all, his last diva was anything but pleasing. Shuddering, Erik quickly abandoned that train of thought before it could wreck him.

The fact of the matter was the world could not be run if everyone wanted to lead; there were those that needed to follow.

And his Ms. Daae was a follower.

But she was meant to be a star… a bright, shining light in the world… and for such a little mouse.

Erik laughed to himself, smiling for the first time in a month—good God, what fate, what benevolent being put her within his grasp? For the first time since he'd been injured, he thanked the Almighty for blessing him in such a way.

A talent such as hers was meant to chase the sun. And here she was in the war-torn city of Le Havre playing nursemaid to him! It was laughable! It was a travesty!

It meant she had her reasons.

And Erik would not rest, would not cease until he ferreted each and every one of them out and made her see that the stage was where she truly deserved to be.

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"Ms. Daae, I have need of your assistance."

Christine jumped, the pot she was scouring clattered to the bottom of the sink sloshing suds every which way as she looked up. Mr. D'Anton stood at the kitchen entrance, a hand upon the counter, his eyebrows raised in expectation as he insisted, "Now, Ms. Daae. You may leave the washing for later. Come."

She shut off the water, and drying her hands on her apron, Christine quickly removed it and hung it on the peg.

An impatient "I'm waiting," came from the living room.

She quickened her steps, wondering if now he would finally let her tend to his face. She stopped in her tracks to see him seated at the piano, an entire ream of blank sheet music and an assortment of pens were on the breakfast tray she typically left by his door in the morning. The tray was in the wingback chair and the chair had been moved so that it sat by the piano, slightly behind the bench.

"You must tell me, Ms. Daae, does this sound familiar?"

He played for her the melody she had been trying to piece out last night up until the wee hours of morning; the melody that had been mixed up with the other on the page. He finished it, and she felt her heart skip a beat.

She'd been caught.

"No?" he asked, "How about this?" He played the other, darker piece; the incidentals that she had been trying to place suddenly made more sense now she heard it played correctly.

At the time, it hadn't occurred to her that what she was doing was wrong. She blushed, her throat going dry. "P-please, sir. I d-didn't mean to pry."

He turned around on the bench to face her, and drew his hands together resting at the knees. "And yet pry you did." Cocking his head to one side, he studied her, his sightless golden eyes sweeping over the place where she stood, making her fidget in place. "You couldn't have heard either of these pieces for I have not played them here; so I ask, where is the music you were reading from?"

Christine hurriedly went to fetch them from the kitchen counter, and returned, very proud of her night's work. "Please, sir. I've put them in a semblance of order. Some of them have been trampled, others unreadable, but really they're quite—"

"Feed them to the woodstove, Ms. Daae," he interrupted.

Christine clutched them to her chest. She had spent the better part of the afternoon and well into the night cataloguing and sorting them. "Bu—"

"You heard me, girl. I do not stutter. Do it. Now."

Moving reluctantly, Christine opened the door to the woodstove and threw the painstakingly crafted and ordered sheet music inside, closing her eyes so she wouldn't have to watch it burn.

"Good girl. Now, come take a seat in the chair beside me. No doubt you've noticed the tray. You said your father was a professor of music. Of what did he profess?"

Christine made her way over to the chair positioned just behind the piano bench but did not sit. "V-violin, sir," she answered him, "but he also taught musical theory as well as music history, and led a seminar in critique."

Mr. D'Anton frowned down at the floor where she stood. "And dare I hope that the knowledge of the father passed to his daughter? Obviously some did otherwise you wouldn't have been able to purloin my music and keep me up all hours of the night with your incessant humming of it."

"I didn't mean to—"

"What? You didn't mean to what, Ms. Daae? Pry into something that's none of your affair? I seem to recall warning you against such behavior before."

Christine pursed her lips together, looking down at her hands, trying hard not to cry.

"Your curiosity is what got you into this mess, my girl, and the only cure from rampant curiosity, in my estimation, is gluttony of knowledge so that you may learn from your mistake. And so, as fitting punishment, you can help me copy and set the musical score you stole to paper."

Shocked, she looked down at him. "But I didn't steal it," she said in a small voice.

He barked a laugh. "A matter of perspective I assure you, mademoiselle. It was my intellectual property. Mine and mine alone to do with as I saw fit; the fact that those papers were out lying about still has no bearing on the fact that you are now privy to my creative endeavoring. And I don't know if you're aware of this, but in terms of legalities, there are ramifications for what you've done."

Christine paled as his implied threat hit its mark. He was threatening to sue her… over his work?!

He continued, "That preview, my dear, that you've taken requires a form of payment. You told me once you found music distasteful; well, this truly should be a punishment for you then, should it not?" He smiled a wry, vicious grin, and Christine felt well and truly trapped by him and his absurd logic. "Now, take your seat, pick up the pen, and begin to transcribe as I play. Transcription is something you can do, yes?"

Taking her seat as he ordered, she licked her lips and picked up the pen, her hand trembling. "Y-yes, sir."

"Good." His tone was bright with approval as he gave her a crooked, winning smile. "Then I will give you direction as needed. You may begin."

He began to play, and as the first notes resounded, Christine's mouth opened in a silent 'oh' of wonder.

She had seen the music for the piece he was playing last night. It was one of the few that were legible, and she had tried to imagine how it was to be sung, how it was to be played, what instruments would accompany the fortunate singer and what words would convey the beautiful music portrayed.

She could practically feel the longing of the piece even if it had no lyrics yet, no accompanimen— "Is there a problem, Ms. Daae? I do not hear you writing..." Mr. D'Anton had turned his head and was frowning over to where she sat, his fingers hovering over the keys expectantly. He'd stopped playing while she sat entranced, and Christine shook herself, taking herself firmly to task for becoming distracted.

He resumed, and this time, she focused on his skill. She had heard him playing clutches of notes, a few chords here and there, but… well, never anything like this! He was giving his all to what he was creating. His hands moved with the keys as if they were one with them—both ebony and ivory—just another extension of his will.

She was charmed by his hands watching them move, tripping up and down—and he was playing blind— proving how complete his mastery over this instrument wa— Mr. D'Anton cleared his throat, and realizing she'd once again lost herself in thought, Christine quickly put pen to paper and transcribed the first few notes as he started the piece over from the top.

But really, his playing was exquisite!

She'd been afraid she would write too slow or not be able to keep up with him. It turned out, she had been right to be afraid. Christine bit her lip, her frustration mounting as she began to get further and further behind. Closing her eyes and already preparing herself for the ear-blistering she was going to receive, she asked, "S-sir… is it possible for you to slow the tempo a bit more?"

"No, Ms. Daae, I will not," his hands crashed to a stop upon the keys as he snarled, "It's written allegretto and allegretto it shall remain. I am the composer, Ms. Daae— I compose. You are the transcriptionist—you transcribe. Do not dare to confuse the two."

Christine blinked, taken aback by his tone, and then his meaning registered, and she shook her head emphatically. "I wasn't. I would never presume to— I just meant…" she drew a deep breath to calm herself, and looked over to where he was seated at the piano. His posture was rigid, his jaw tight. She asked quietly to his back, "Would you please play it more slowly? I'm having difficulty keeping up, sir."

"Ah," he muttered with the slightest hint of embarrassment, and Christine saw his posture relax as he turned towards her. He gave her one of his wry, crooked smiles, the right side of his face unmoving. "Forgive me, Ms. Daae. You see, this is punishment for both our sakes then—you because you hate music and me because I have to rely on the good will of another to give my creation form and meaning."

Christine bit her lip, trying to see the situation from his point of view.

She was not an artist… she did not create. But she could imagine how frustrating it would be to have to give even a part of her creation to another— especially one as integral as what she was having to do for him—literally be his eyes as he relied on memory and trusted in her to give his creation 'form and meaning' so that others could see it performed.

It was quite the intimate task he was setting her to do, and she knew him to be fiercely independent to the point of doing himself harm.

"Shall we begin again?" He asked apologetically.

Christine looked up from her thoughts to find him still turned towards her, one eyebrow raised in inquiry as his honey-hued eyes stared sightlessly over her right shoulder. Another frown marred his scarred visage, but she didn't think it was directed at her.

Feeling a greater sense of compassion for him, even if he chose to label this as 'punishment' for her, Christine took back up her pen and stated with poise, "Ready when you are, sir."

And so, once more he began to play, this time much more slowly, and she transcribed note for meticulous note.

Then he did it again, still just as slow, and he had her check her work, making certain she didn't miss a single note. And then once more, and this time, he had her add subtext: notes on diminuendo and crescendo, whether it was to be sung forte, pianissimo or some variant thereof, staccato or legato—and this was just the first four hours!

She looked up at him from her position hunched over the tea tray. A scant few perfect sheets of music lay completed beside her; a mound of crumpled paper lay in the floor awaiting the woodstove.

And this was only the arietta—the shortest of the arias to be performed!

Oh, but her hand ached!

Putting down the pen and stretching her cramped fingers, Christine rose from her seated position on a soundless groan. She had been sitting for hours on end, and she rolled her neck to try and loosen the muscles that were tense from being hunched over the tray for so long.

But she didn't begrudge one moment spent doing it for she'd been able to witness a genius's creative mind at work.

She had never before seen someone labor to create such art, let alone craft such faultless beauty. Her father, while a precise and gifted musician, had never had that spark of inspiration or creativity that Mr. D'Anton had just shown her.

Throughout the entire process, he was revising, and sometimes right in the middle of her transcription, he would play the piece starting from a few measures back and try it various ways… finally settling on one that sounded better to his ear. This would, of course, necessitate Christine starting with a fresh piece of blank sheet music, picking up where the changes left off and then copying to exact specification the notes from the previous sheet later.

Though more often than not, Christine agreed with him when he did decide to rework a certain section, but then, she'd also thought the arietta sounded perfect the first time she heard it played… until she heard him make a change: perhaps of only a single note, and it gave another color, another mood entirely to what he was attempting to portray.

He did several such revisions, and the final product—or at least what was written completely on paper—was a confection of sound.

Turning from his position at the piano, Mr. D'Anton smiled at her finally satisfied. "Now, my dear, you will play for me what you've written so that I know it is written correctly."

Christine gulped and shook her head, forgetting for the moment that he couldn't see her. "I-I don't play the piano, sir, at least not well. I don't play any instrument."

His honey-golden eyes narrowed to slits. "A child of music, and yet you do not play an instrument. Hmm, curious…and yet, you were humming last night. I take it you can sing, Ms. Daae?"

"No." She unconsciously took a step back.

He rose from the piano bench as well, and taking a step towards her, seemed to stalk her about the room, coming to stand before her as he looked down at the floor where she stood. The muscles in his jaw were tight, and she didn't like the calculating gleam in his eyes. "No, what, Ms. Daae?" He was frowning again.

"No, sir." She stated with finality, her chin going up. "I do not sing."

He shook his head and grinned. "I didn't ask if you did sing, I asked if you could. Can. You. Sing?"

Christine pursed her lips, feeling the absurd need to cry. "Y-yes." The broken sound was wrested from her lips by the power of his voice.

He nodded. "Then do so, on an 'Ah' if you please so that I know it's written correctly."

Turning away from her in clear expectation of her compliance, he sat back down at the stool, his hands hovering over the keys. Mr. D'Anton muttered as an afterthought, "Pay attention to intonation and movement. While I am by no means expecting perfection, I am expecting you to at least have grasped what you've written and convey it accordingly. Frankly my dear, I don't care if you can carry a tune in a bucket, just as long as that bucket's in tune, if you get my meaning? Now begin."

He played the opening bars, and Christine began to tremble. She hadn't sung—not for an audience—not really at all since that night she'd overheard her father and his friend, and she was terrified.

He played her cue, and she missed it. He stopped and lingered on the note, pressing it loudly and repeatedly. "Ms. Daae, I'm waiting. Begin reading, now."

Reading… not singing. She was literally 'sight-reading' for him so that she could be his sight. He didn't care what she sounded like, he had said as much. And he didn't give a fig for what she looked like either. Physical appearance was a moot point with him.

Feeling measurably more at ease, Christine assumed the proper stance, leaning slightly forward as she had been taught and opening her heart's center wide. She sang the first two measures of notes on an 'Ah'.

Mr. D'Anton's fingers stumbled on the keys which in turn jarred her. "Keep going, keep going," he muttered irritably, keeping his face hunched close to the keys.

Focused as she was on the music in hand, Christine did.

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Erik was going to have to rewrite the entire damn score.

The whole opera—minus the arietta he and his diva just worked through—would have to be scrapped and rewritten, and all because of one little mouse with an INCREDIBLE vocal talent.

He was still smiling even hours after he'd finally sent her to bed, pressing upon her some more of Nadir's cardamom tea, sweetened with a dollop of honey as he'd discovered she preferred. It took everything within him not to kiss her as she left, not to give in to this puling need for contact. But, my God how he wanted to!

She had written it perfectly, and if that wasn't enough, his diva had gone on to sing it perfectly—exactly as he'd envisioned it sung… and this with neither knowing the basic premise of the opera nor having lyrics to convey meaning. Just from his direction alone.

Exquisite.

He had been obliged to make 'revisions' to the score just so he could hear her sing a certain part again, and then he had her change it back, smiling to himself at the exasperation that crept into her voice when she sang it once more as previously written at his request.

His mind drifted to thoughts of Carlotta and what she would have done when faced with such requests as he'd given his little mouse. Erik aborted that line of thought before it could form. No such comparison could exist for it would be like comparing the moon to the sun: a cold and remote satellite that all but disappeared when faced with the life-sustaining essence of the daystar's light.

He bowed his head, pressing his folded hands to his forehead, feeling a foreign urge to give thanks to the Almighty for this strange and wondrous boon. It almost, almost made up for the injuries he'd sustained in war.

Yes, even the loss of his sight.

A gurgling noise disturbed him from his thoughts, and Erik cocked his head to the side listening intently. There it was again… a low growl. With bemusement, he realized it was his stomach; he was actually hungry. And he hadn't felt this way since waking up in the hospital!

For once, he was saddened that Ms. Daae had not fixed him his supper. But then, he'd hardly given the poor girl the chance for he'd had them working from mid-afternoon until about an hour before midnight.

Wincing, Erik chastised himself for his neglect of her care.

Tomorrow, he would make certain she was fed before they began work on the score, and he would have to remember to request breaks of her, for well he now knew his new diva would work herself unto death trying to please him.

Confidently navigating his way to the kitchen, Erik pulled cold cuts and cheese from the larder and set about making himself a sandwich, his mind filled with his Christine and the music they were destined to create.

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A/N: Credit goes to FP33 for her mad beta skills! Oh, but that Erik sure can be a tricksy fellow, can he not? Ordering her about like he is, trapping her into transcribing and singing for him…

And reviews are such wonderful things… :D

PFP