Ch. 18— Business as Usual

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That day created a marked change for the inhabitants of the little cottage as a new pattern began to emerge. Most mornings, Christine would wake up to the sounds of Mr. D'Anton softly playing the piano. It was still ungodly early when she did, but her body was slowly starting to adapt to it. That, and now Mr. D'Anton sent her to bed earlier in the evenings when she began to yawn and drift.

She would make breakfast and do the necessary chores while he would play vocal exercises for her, gradually warming up her voice in preparation for their work. After breakfast, she would tend his face and finish her chores; all the while Mr. D'Anton would play and sketch on the piano, giving her teasing previews of what the afternoon's work would entail. Late morning through early evening would find them ensconced on his score; Christine putting his thoughts to paper and then singing them back to him.

In the evening, they would have dinner together at the kitchen nook where he would regale her with tales of the opera and the productions they put on in the past. And then came her favorite time, after dinner, where he would have her read to him or they would sit and listen to the radio. Sometimes he would ask her to dance—always a slow song— other times, he would play for her a well-known composition—sometimes classical, sometimes popular— adding improvisations and dramatic flourishes that quite made them into newer pieces entirely and left Christine in awe of his genius anew.

She had noticed it the first time they dined together: though the man was blind, he still had impeccable table manners. Christine remembered their first true meal together when he asked her to serve him at the table and she was going to take her meal to the living room…

"Ms. Daae, where do you think you're going?"

She looked at him curiously. "To the living room, of course, so you can eat in peace."

He looked to approximately where she stood, his expression perplexed. "Eat in peace… whatever gave you the impression I wanted to dine alone?"

"But I— well, we've never truly shared a errm…" Christine floundered at a loss for words.

He sighed. "Please fix your plate, bring it to the table, and sit right here beside me, my dear." His tone brooked no refusal.

Blushing, Christine did as instructed, setting herself a place beside him.

"Good." He nodded once she had taken her seat at his right hand. "Now, Ms. Daae, let's put that higher level mathematical education of yours to some good use, hmm?" He smiled toothily, explaining "I want you to give me particulars concerning the meal in front of me including food type and position using quadrants and degrees.

Smiling, Christine bit her lip and studied his plate.

A moment later she said, "Alright, …let's see, the green beans are first quadrant, ten to sixty degrees, sir. And errm… the roll is second quadrant ninety to one-hundred and forty degrees, there's a whole pork cutlet in front of you, errm, third quadrant, approximately one hundred eighty to two hundred eighty degrees. It's lying parallel to the horizontal axis, sir. And well, the mashed potatoes are sitting fourth quadrant, three hundred to three hundred sixty degrees. Oh, and salt and pepper as well as a pat of butter are lying askew forty-five by one hundred thirty-five degrees, respectively, each seven centimeters from the perimeter of the plate, sir."

He nodded, and Christine watched intrigued, as he picked up his knife and fork and began to unerringly slice into his cutlet. "You're not eating, Ms. Daae," he scolded.

Ducking her head in embarrassment for having been caught out staring, by a blind man at that, Christine quickly picked up her own knife and fork and began to eat, and thus, started their meal-time tradition of 'dining in degrees' as Mr. D'Anton jovially referred to it.

While at dinner they talked, and sometimes he would ask her questions, especially about the type of education she received, the classes she had taken, her opinion concerning the goings-on of the world outside; other times, he would tell her stories, like he was doing tonight, about his opera and the antics and hi-jinks that went on behind the scenes.

"Oh, that cannot be true!" Christine exclaimed, shaking her head in disbelief.

"It most certainly is, mademoiselle, as it can't have been more than five or six years ago." he told her deadpan.

Christine laughed softly and shook her head, saying, "I just… I find it hard to believe, that's all."

"Find what hard to believe, Ms. Daae?" he asked, his unseeing eyes comically wide, his expression hurt. "Do you think me dishonest?"

"No!" she exclaimed, "It's just… stairways leading to nowhere, hidden corridors and secret passages riddled throughout, an underground lake… it all sounds too fantastic to be believed!"

He shook his head and waggled his eyebrows at her, "The architect, my great grandfather, was a bit of an eccentric… which is just a polite way of saying he was a kook."

Christine laughed.

Mr. D'Anton sat back from the table, grinning, and wiped his mouth with his napkin.

He gave her his toothsome pirate's grin, "You should believe every word of it, my dear. For I've seen it for myself. The old place is reputed to be haunted, don't you know? People hear strange voices in the dark, mysterious happenings going on. Why wouldn't you believe Hitler himself refused to step foot in my theatre?

"The basta—errm, pardon, mademoiselle, the odious gentleman is reputed to be quite superstitious. When two of his S.S. came to the Populaire to survey it for a rally for their Fuhrer once it became clear Paris was under occupation of German forces in 1940, wouldn't you know, Ms. Daae, but it was the damndest thing. Why both his officers reported back to him tales of the ghost. It seemed they both had been frightened out of their wits when they had taken tour of my Opera House." There was an underlying note of ruthless steel in Mr. D'Anton's voice as he related this to her, and Christine shivered. "Needless to say, Herr Hitler declined my generous offer to use the Populaire for his propaganda and his grandstanding, and found another less-prestigious but considerably less-haunted venue to house his assemblies." Mr. D'Anton smiled viciously and saluted her with his wine-glass. "To the ghost, Ms. Daae."

"To the ghost," she whispered, considering, taking a small sip from her own glass and studying him curiously. There was something about his expression… something that told Christine there was more to this story than what he'd elected to share.

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Erik was tracking her through the cottage, following her scent—sunshine, springtime, and lavender soap.

She hadn't gone to bed yet, he knew, and she had not come to the living room for their evening's entertainment. The only other option was the bathroom, which he just checked, or the backyard, which made little to no sense. The girl knew how dangerous it was, what with him always harping to keep the doors and windows locked and the curtains drawn, and it was full-on dark by now… and freezing.

Opening the back door, Erik sniffed at the air. He detected no trace of her perfume, but he did notice the smell of ice. It was in the air all around them; it was going to snow.

"Ms. Daae?" Erik let the slightest trace of unease enter into his tone. What if she was out there? She seemed too practical a soul to go somewhere and not tell him where she was going. But perhaps she was disposing the evening's leavings for the gulls? She did that on occasion… but she always told him when she was doing it, and Erik always made sure to 'escort' her at those times, not liking her being outside alone, even so close to the house, without a male present.

"Mr. D'Anton?" her small, puzzled voice came from behind him.

Erik turned around and held out his hand for her, pleased when she instantly took it, and stepping forward, he could feel her proximity to him. He shut the backdoor and locked it, then leaned against it and drew her close. "Where were you, my dear? I could find neither hide nor hair of you."

Tentatively, he reached out and touched her cheek. There was a small pause and then she nuzzled the slightest bit into his hand. "Andre didn't come today, sir," she explained, "And I just wanted to make certain both the boiler and the generator in the shed had plenty of fuel to see us through the night. I think we'll have to make use of both the radiator and the woodstove tonight."

"Well, next time you feel the need to do such, tell me so, Ms. Daae," Erik fought hard to keep the frustration he felt out of his voice, "that way I won't have to go blindly gallivanting all over creation just to find you." He caressed her cheek with his thumb, and not even giving it a second thought, pressed his lips to her forehead in a quick kiss. He released her just as quickly and began walking towards the living room leaving stunned silence in his wake.

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Christine felt her forehead; she could still sense the impression of his lips there even minutes after he'd gone. She drew a shaky breath and closed her eyes. She loved him. Without a doubt she loved him.

And surely it had to be all one-sided… surely.

The man probably kissed every woman of his association like that... it meant nothing. After all, he ran with a faster set, and Christine was certain, he had known many women in the Biblical sense even before his fiancé. But the gesture bespoke more of caring affection than any kind of casual contact. One would do that for a loved one, a sister, or a maiden aunt. Right?

It wasn't a romantic gesture at all.

But then there was the dancing, and his casual touches throughout the day.

Oftentimes, he would do as he 'd just done—reaching out for her hand— touching her cheek, her back, her shoulders, drawing her to stand close to him.

And standing there in the wake of his kiss, it occurred to her if she left his side for more than a few minutes at a time without telling him where she was going, then he tended to come seek her out. Of course it was only because he needed her. After all, she was at the moment of value to him—in as much as a housekeeper or secretary were of value—his nurse.

She tried to tell herself all these things and more, but her heart—her foolish, forlorn, hope-filled heart—would not stop to listen.

She loved him. The knowledge thudded with certainty inside her chest.

She loved Mr. D'Anton.

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A/N: My, oh my… TWO updates today, my readers! And Erik was worried over Christine's absence, and Christine now realizes she's in lurve… and oh, but it truly is a shame she doesn't think herself worthy TO be loved in return… silly Christine.

You know, a review is like a delightfully gift-wrapped treat given from you to me.

PFP