Next chapter, folks. I'm so glad you all are liking this! Now you'll get to see what Erik thought of their quarrel... or will you? After all, he'd have to remember it first...
Chapter 16. July, 1887. Early Saturday morning, hours after the quarrel.
Erik came very suddenly awake, heart pounding. Reflexively he slapped at a pocket, and his dagger was in his hand before he realised where he was.
He sat back down on the piano bench, gasping for breath. His heartbeat gradually slowed, and he took off his mask and wiped his brow, thinking how insupportable it was that a man should have such a reaction when he was in his own house. But he'd always been prone to waking up that way if there was anything in the least unusual about the waking, largely because there had been so many times when such reflexes had saved his life. He should have known better than to let himself fall asleep over the piano.
He ran a hand through his hair and then winced. His fingers were sore from writing. He looked over at the pages of scrawled music, and flipped through them. Yes, they would do. A little bit of revision would be needed, to be sure, but the bones of what he wanted were there. He yawned, and stood up, looking forward to an invigorating shower-bath, and thinking that afterward clean clothes and food would be in order.
It was when he was cleaning his teeth that he remembered, and he stopped and lowered the toothbrush slowly. God. Christine! She had wanted... something... oh, yes, she'd wanted him to come and eat dinner, again. And he'd been irritated and sent her away, and she'd kept pestering him, and finally he'd exploded and said – what had he said, exactly? He couldn't remember the specifics, but grimaced at the thought of what his words were likely to have been, especially as he seemed to recall her throwing something at him.
Why had she been so adamant that he come to the table?
He finished his teeth, rubbed his wet hair with a towel, and went into the dining room, pulling on a fresh dressing gown on the way.
She was not there. The table was laid with food in serving dishes, silver and china, flowers, candles... what was all this? There was one glass that was full of wine, and the other empty, but plainly used. He walked slowly around the table, puzzled.
Obviously she'd gone to some trouble to prepare dinner and set the table. But... why? And where was she? What time was it, anyway? He went out to the parlour to get his watch, realised he'd let it run down, and looked at the clock on the mantelpiece. It was running; Christine must have wound it. A good thing, too, for in the days of his bachelorhood, when he went into a composing fit that lasted for days all the clocks in the house would stop from lack of attention and he would have not a notion what time or even what day it was. On many occasions he had been obliged to go up into the upper reaches of the Opera or out of doors, to spy on people for long enough to discover the answer. But now, with a wife... with someone to help him, tend to him, he at last had someone to perform such kindnesses, small perhaps, but more than he had ever known before. He swept his eyes about the room; traces of her were everywhere, both the more permanent ones, such as a pretty cushion she had embroidered in a pattern she fancied was Persian, and the signs of things she must have done just that day. The water pitcher and glass; had it not even occurred to him, earlier, to think about how they got there? The remains of a fire that had been kept going, to make the room cosy; her mending basket on the small table by her favourite chair, with one of his shirts in it that needed buttons resewn; the room tidied and dusted, when he would have let it fall into disorder until he was finished working.
He thought, very tenderly, of how different his life was now with Christine in it, and how much more delightful. He had been in terror these last several days that she was turning cold to him. The urge to compose had not been so very desperate at first.
On Wednesday afternoon he had started working on a snippet of melody that was playing in his head, merely out of boredom as Christine was out and he had nothing much to do, having completed the week's quota of reminding the denizens of the Opera that the ghost had not taken the summer off. By the time she was back, he barely noticed, because the snippet had become several songs, and images from Dante, the setting to music of which he'd considered doing for decades but never quite got round to, were filling his mind along with bars of ever more music. Fully intrigued, he'd continued exploring them for several hours, curious to see where this burst of inspiration might lead, until he started on a section about the lady Beatrice and how she was the poet's salvation. This made Erik think of his Christine, who had been his own salvation, and he set down his pen and his copy of the Divine Comedy and got up from the piano to go in search of her. Surely she must be waiting up for him in bed; it was eleven p.m., nearly the witching hour, and he went single-mindedly to the bedroom, intent on revelling in pagan joys.
But instead, it turned out to be the second night in a row in which he came to bed in want of his wife, only to find her soundly asleep. He stood over her slumbering form, nonplussed and annoyed. It was not common, now, for them to go this many days in a row without so indulging. To his shock and delight, she had swiftly learned to enjoy intimacy as much as, and maybe more, than he did, and with her youthful vigour was frequently the instigator of it. But the drawback to that was that he now felt hard done by if more than a couple of days passed without his being allowed his marital rights, even though only a few months ago he had thought it utterly out of the question that any woman, much less Christine, would permit any such thing… let alone demand it of him. Life often seemed very surreal these days.
He could always wake her. It was his right, after all. But he could not enjoy the act if she were not, and he'd learned already that she didn't appreciate being woken up before she was ready. Most theatre people were late risers, due to the constant late nights inherent in their profession, and Christine was no different. So then…why had she been asleep this early, two nights in a row? Why…yes, she had seemed preoccupied before she went out, hadn't she? Did it mean something? Perhaps she was falling asleep deliberately in order to avoid him. Had her feelings changed?
Three months was time enough to have a change of heart, but not nearly enough to change the habits of a lifetime. The paranoia that was never very far away rushed over him without warning, and his unstable mind began to feel the beginnings of panic. Anxiously it cast about, looking in every corner for any possible danger. All manner of ways in which he might have bothered or frightened her promptly began suggesting themselves, till finally he put his hands over his face, shuddering, and then felt the twisted flesh under his fingers and was sharply reminded of her horror when she first saw his hideousness. True, she had insisted that it no longer disgusted her, and certainly acted as though that were true, but…what if it was indeed an act? She was an actress, after all, a damned good one, and he was only a poor dog ready to die for her love. It would not have been hard for her to deceive him, had she chosen to do so. His devotion to her had made him appallingly vulnerable.
On that Wednesday evening he had turned on his heel, stalking back out to the piano to soothe his turbulent emotions by returning to the arms of his ever-faithful Lady Music. She would not forsake him, she would never forsake him. Women were fickle, but music…that, he could bend to his will as he liked, and master it totally. He had sat angrily down on the bench and seized his pen, nearly tearing a hole in the paper with the force of his writing. In no time at all he had descended into a complete berserk fit, great waves of music swelling up in his brain and overflowing so that he rushed to write them down before he forgot them, taking only brief notes in the personal notation which he had devised decades ago to both speed his writing and make it easier on his right hand. He lost all track of time and all sensations of hunger or thirst or fatigue, and he had been only distantly aware that it must be morning when Christine came looking for him hours later. Working throughout the entirety of Thursday, he ignored everything, from his wife to the passing of the hours. The time did not matter. All that mattered was his fear, and the music that was being born from it, and he did not want to talk to her now. He was getting far too dependent on her. He would be utterly lost if he lost her. Thus he was glad when she went out again on Friday morning, so that he did not have to see her and think of what it would be like if that happened.
Being left to his own devices at bedtime, though, was thoroughly distasteful, even when it didn't set him off in this fashion. By now, he was deliciously accustomed to her waiting up for him in the evenings in an alluring night-dress, or, if she were more impatient, coming to him to draw him away from whatever he was doing with soft kisses and enchanting embraces. Sometimes they did not even make it to bed, in fact, choosing instead a couch or the floor. Joining with her on the hearthrug, with the fire crackling gently and casting its golden glow over the splendour of her bare body, was a happiness he could never have imagined, before it wonderfully, unbelievably happened. God... to have lost that, now that he knew what it was to experience it... to have lost her to the Vicomte, of whom he was still cringingly, unmanfully afraid; he would not have been able to bear it. He had borne many terrible things throughout his long, violent life, but that would finish him. He leaned against the parlour wall, looking again at all the signs of her care for him, weak with relief at the evidence that perhaps her affections were still true.
It was now three in the morning on Saturday, and the house was silent. She must have gone to bed. Had he made her angry with him, after all, and all because of his own contemptible fears, when she hadn't actually been so before? Little by little the recollection of their quarrel was coming back to him, and he had a fair idea that he was going to be in trouble. Penance was probably going to be required. Maybe grovelling, too. Extravagant compliments, undoubtedly. It was surprising how far those last, which seemed always appreciated by Christine, would go to get him back in her good graces. It was not generally difficult for him to think of those, adoring her as he did, but just now his mental capacities were at a low ebb.
Should he eat something first, perhaps, to strengthen himself for the task? If he complimented her cooking, would she be pleased? And he was actually hungry. In fact, he couldn't remember the last time he'd eaten. He went back out to the dining room, tore off a piece of bread, and ladled soup into a bowl, ignoring the pie. The wine in the full glass was surely spoiled, so he uncorked the bottle and poured fresh into a clean glass taken from the cabinet set into the wall. After a bite of the food, he took a sip of the wine, and frowned. What had she been about, thinking to serve this vintage with... what kind of soup was that? It was completely unsuitable to serve this wine with it. He must explain to her – wait. No. No. He was still a rank beginner when it came to understanding the female psyche, but he was quite certain that taking Christine to task over her choice of wine was, just now, likely to be a supremely bad idea.
He finished his meal. It had been quite acceptable, but he was going to have to come up with something much better than that to say to her. He took the food into the kitchen and put it away, cleared and washed the dishes, and then went back and blew out the candles. Christine was lucky not to have burnt the place down, leaving them lit like that. How strange to be worried about fire now, when only a few months before he had been hell-bent on destroying the entire Opera House. Then he went to their bedroom.
The door was locked. His eyebrow shot up. Oh, dear. He really was in trouble. Should he leave her undisturbed for a while?
His curiosity got the better of him, and he went to fetch his lockpicking tools. He would just have a quick look at her and determine the lay of the land. Erik could, after all, both pick a lock and open a door without making any sound, she would not be awakened unless he chose to do so...
The room was a shambles. The signs of her rage were everywhere; that ridiculously expensive dress lying crumpled and torn on the floor, undergarments scattered, her necklace in a puddle – having obviously been thrown against the wall – and small items lying around, indicating that they had been picked up and hurled about. The entire room was an utter disaster. His brow creased. This was unusual for his meek little protégée. She was not given to violent rages as he was. Had she learned this behaviour from him? Or had she simply been so hurt by his rejection of her carefully prepared dinner as to act in such an uncharacteristic manner? He trailed remorseful golden eyes over the huddled figure of his wife in what was now their bed. The idea that his approval of her housekeeping was that important to her was extraordinary, and difficult for him to grasp. Even after three months of marriage, he still was not used to it.
Her back was to him. He circled around, and spied dried tears on her cheek. His shoulders slumped.
Here, then, was evidence that yes, indeed, he'd hurt her. She had worked all afternoon preparing dinner for him, she'd shouted. And she'd plainly taken pains over the appearance of the table, and – his eyes swept the room – and apparently over her own appearance too. In fact... he inhaled experimentally.
Yes, it was there. That exotic scent that always meant –
He wasn't especially fond of most perfumes, finding many of them artificial and tawdry, annoying to his keen senses. But this one was different. It was an Eastern concoction that he'd been surprised to find on the streets of Paris, that day soon after their marriage when they were out more to wander aimlessly than to make any specific purchases. He'd pointed it out to Christine and commented offhandedly that it was one of the few scents he'd ever actually liked, and that the harem ladies used to use it in Persia. Christine, who found the idea of harems far more arousing than her husband would have liked, had looked up at him with mischievous eyes and asked if he'd like her to wear it. While he was still processing that, she'd stood up on her toes and whispered into his ear, "Would you like me to wear this and nothing else?"
The perfume had been purchased immediately, and Christine's wearing of it had evolved into a sort of signal between the two of them; when he detected it on her, he knew right away that she wanted him. And she'd had it on tonight. This woman, whom he loved beyond all reason, had spent her day tending to his comfort and cooking for him; had dressed carefully, to please him, and had laid out an elegant table. She'd done her best to make a romantic evening for him, and that... that was something which, in his wildest fantasies, he would never have imagined any woman would ever even consider doing for him, much less actually follow through on. It was still hard enough to accept that she'd married him. That she would go to this much effort to please him was astonishing. And what had he done with this precious gift she'd held out to him with both hands? He'd ignored it, shoved it aside, and yelled at her when she tried to bring his attention to it a second time.
He'd said a good many unkind things, too, all his frustration and fear of the past few days exploding at once. The harsh comments he'd made hadn't seemed so bad to him; he'd been insulted far worse, many times. Erik pondered what he could remember of the quarrel. He would have thought that she would know he hadn't really meant most of what he'd bellowed at her. He lost his temper on a regular basis, which she should be well aware of now. But…look at this room. It appeared that he'd cut Christine to the quick. Well, she was a woman, after all, she couldn't be expected to bear as much as a man. He really ought to have realised that and curbed his tongue. Women were irrational and overly emotional creatures, and she'd evidently taken his words far harder than he would have. What was no more than a pinprick to him might be a knife in the heart to her. Had he learned nothing in three months of marriage? Would he never be done making this sort of mistake? How could a man who did not possess a nose in the first place, spend so much time cutting it off to spite his face?
He felt terribly ashamed of himself, which was still a rather new feeling for him, and most unpleasant. He must do something to make it go away. He circled back around to the other side of the bed again, and then muttered, "What are you? A moth, for God's sake?"
He needed to do something that would please and pacify her. Well... she'd put on that perfume, hadn't she? Perhaps she was no longer as cold to him as she'd been these last three days, three days of a monkish existence that he was no longer used to living with? He looked at her tempting curves, her graceful back, and the sheet that was draped over her hips, waiting to be pulled off. Tendrils of desire began to snake through him.
He restrained himself. Not now. He could have had a warm, willing, living wife earlier, it seemed, and he had been too great a fool to know it. He didn't deserve her. Maybe he never had. He began to move silently about the room, picking up some of the things she had thrown around. A few of the necklace's links were bent out of place, and he absently fixed them before laying it on the vanity. Her dress was crumpled on the rug beside the bed; he picked it up and tried futilely to smooth out the wrinkles, thinking of when it had been ordered and of how much he had looked forward to seeing her in it. The brief surge of energy he'd experienced from his earlier catnap and the meal he'd eaten was evaporating quickly, and there didn't seem to be anything to do now but wait until Christine woke up. He'd been married long enough already to have learned what happened if he woke her when she had fallen asleep upset with him. After one such encounter, it had been a wonder that he remained in one piece.
He kneeled and stretched out wearily on the rug, tucking the dress under his head so that he could burrow his face into the soft velvet, in lieu of her body. It was ruined anyway, and it smelled of her. A strand of her long hair was hanging over the side of the bed; he reached out and stroked it wistfully with just one finger, as if using his whole hand would have been too presumptuous. His eyes closed.
O-O-O O-O-O