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Chapter Text

Paris, France
1881

Nadir Khan had no idea what to do when the young woman with bright blue eyes and curls of brown hair stood in the doorway of his flat, tears streaming down her cheeks and face contorted in an expression of pain. His first instinct was to ask if she was physically all right.

When she whispered shakily that she was unharmed, his second instinct was to pull her into his arms in a tight embrace.

This was Christine. Daughter of his late friend Gustave Daae, the famed violinist. She was like a daughter to him, too. In essence, she actually was. Before Gustave passed from the cancer that decimated his body from the inside out, he named Nadir her guardian. Christine had been ten years old.

Eight years later, Christine married a banker. Claude Porcher. The man had been five years her senior and seemed kind enough. Good-looking, charming, and excellent with money, Nadir didn't see a reason why they weren't a good match.

Then the letters stopped coming. Nadir was suddenly not invited inside their apartment, and Christine was always too indisposed to visit him. For a year and a half, Nadir did not see his ward once.

Until now.

And it wasn't until he pulled away from their hug that he noticed the skin of the right side of her neck, just below her jaw. A bruise. A dark one.

Nadir checked the dark street behind her, finding it empty of everything but the autumn night air, and pulled her inside. She allowed him; she gasped in relief, in fact. He was forty years older than her, and though he knew she was an adult, he often still thought of her as a child. To see that bruise, to suspect what he did-

"He hurt you," he said. Not a question. A fact. One that she nodded her head to confirm was true.

"Please hide me," she said. "Please." She gripped his wrists. "He will come after me."

Nadir stared at her hard, not saying a word. More tears fell from her eyes.

"I've tried running before," she said. "He always catches me. I managed to sneak out this time, but this is the first place he will look. He...he will come. Please help me, Nadir."

He shot his gaze toward the door, mind already churning with what to do. He'd been the chief of police of Persia, once. But he was growing older by the day, and would have a difficult time fighting anyone off at his age.

"I know it was stupid of me to have come here," she whispered. "But I have no friends outside of you. Please. Help me."

There weren't very many places for her to hide. It wasn't as though he could hide her under one of the Persian rugs in his house, behind the tapestries or inside his rolled-up prayer mats. Hiding under the bed or in the wardrobe would be obvious, as well. And it was the middle of the night. Even if it wasn't, Nadir had no friends either.

His mind halted.

No friends, except for one man.

But...no. That would be quite impossible. If Porcher didn't kill Nadir for harboring Christine, then Erik would surely do it for trying to harbor her with him.

Although, Nadir had angered the man before. What was once more? Yes, Erik was known to commit acts of violence as well, but never against Nadir. And never against Christine, either - Erik had once told him that he was very strictly against harming the innocents: animals, children, and women. Nadir had retorted that there were, in fact, evil women in the world. Erik responded that he'd never met one who hadn't turned out that way because of a man. According to him, his own mother had only been cruel because Erik himself caused her life to be miserable. Men, on the other hand, had no excuse.

Yes, Erik would be the best chance Christine had. Neither one of them would like it. But Christine had little choice. And Erik would have to see reason. Nadir would ensure that he saw reason.

He looked at Christine. She was still gripping his wrists like it was all she could do not to fall apart. Perhaps that was true. Perhaps letting go would cause her to crumble to dust. So he put his hands to her cheeks and nodded reassuringly.

"I know somewhere that you can go," he said gently, and leaned in to kiss her forehead. She sighed, releasing months of pain in a single breath, relaxing into her guardian's loving touch. "But it might not be a very pleasant place. And the man who lives there might say no."

"Who is he?" she asked.

"A recluse of the most extreme kind. He is a musician, magician, artist, and architect. He designed the Paris Opera House - and currently resides beneath it."

She stared at him. "Beneath it? He lives in a basement?"

"Deeper down. In a house on an underground lake."

Her brows stitched. "You're not serious."

"I am. And like I said, he may refuse to take you. But it is the best plan we have." Nadir moved his hands away from her face, gripped her palm in his, and brought her again to the door of the flat. "Come. We must be quick. At the very least, Porcher will not find you there tonight."

"What if he refuses, like you said?"

He opened the door a crack and glanced out. No sign yet of Christine's husband. "If he refuses, then we will figure out something else. But let's not fret about that until my friend makes a decision - and until I fail to persuade him to say yes."

Chapter Text

Oh, it was entirely too late for this.

Now, Erik knew it was the Daroga for exactly two reasons. One, Jules Bernard only stopped by with supplies on Saturdays at seven in the evening, and had the good sense to be precise with that schedule. It was nearing eleven now. And it was Thursday.

Two, Nadir was possessed with the obnoxious habit of ringing the bell no less than three times. In quick succession. The bell's string ran from his house and across the lake to the other side. Tonight, in less than ten seconds, it had been rung five times. Five, for God's sake. He wondered if it was worth it to simply snip the string in two.

Erik had picked up a Tolstoy novel. He'd not practiced his Russian in quite some time, so he wanted to read in that language before it began fading on him. Normally, he went up to the surface, to Box Five, to read. He quite liked the open, opulent atmosphere of the theatre - he'd designed it that way, after all. But he'd been a bit tired. He'd chosen to stay in. By the fifth ring of the bell, he decided that he regretted that choice.

Yes, he could always ignore the man. He was bound to go away eventually. But when Erik didn't trek across the lake to meet him after fifteen minutes, the Daroga would simply try again. And again. And again. Nadir was a patient man. Erik was not. In this particular instance, the Daroga always got his way.

Erik cursed under his breath and set the book down gently on the table beside his armchair. His Siamese cat eyed him from where she slept on a pillow at his feet. He stood.

"Apologies, dear girl," he said to her. "I will be back promptly. Assuming our friend doesn't have too much nonsense to unload." He made his way to the front door of his house, put on his black hat and white mask, and picked up the lantern.

Out at the boat, he hooked the lantern to the tip of the bow. A gondola, he needed to stand to steer it. He picked up the oar and stepped in, the lantern's glow illuminating the blackness ahead. The only other light was a small square of it on the other side of the lake's shore - what he presumed to be Nadir.

Minutes later, when the shore came more fully into view, he noticed that it wasn't just the Daroga standing there, but a woman as well.

Erik had to stop rowing, utter shock filling his mind.

He blinked once. Then twice. Surely this was a hallucination. Surely Nadir wasn't mad enough to bring another person here. Surely this man wasn't yet senile. Three people alive knew of his home down here - M. Khan, M. Bernard, and Charles Garnier. He had intended for it to stay that way, for his own comfort and safety. Apparently, Nadir had other ideas.

Anger bubbled in Erik's chest. No. Not today. He would not be compromising his privacy for...whatever this was. Bringing a woman here...Good Lord! He couldn't think of a single sane reason for this. So he turned the boat around without emitting another word.

Nadir saw the gondola spin slowly around and called, his voice thick with that Persian accent, "Wait! Erik! Come back!"

"You've lost your mind, Daroga!" Erik plunged his oar into the water.

"I need your help!" he called back. "Just once more, Erik. Once more, I need your help!"

Erik ground his teeth, but froze nonetheless. Years ago, when they were both younger men in a distant land, they'd taken turns saving each other's lives. He'd thought that had ended. Clearly, it hadn't. And because Nadir had risked his own life to help Erik escape execution, Erik could grumble and growl and groan all he wanted - but even his marred and twisted conscience could not allow him to refuse Nadir help.

He seethed as he rowed back to the shore, heart pounding in fury. The woman with Nadir stared at him with wide, frightened eyes. Her hands gripped Nadir's arm, a girl holding onto the armor of a knight in the face of a monster.

Erik stepped in a long stride off the boat and snapped at the Daroga, "What?"

Nadir cleared his throat at his obvious anger. "Erik. This is Christine. My ward. I've been responsible for her since she was a child. She's like my own."

"Fascinating." Erik's voice was a desert at noon - hot, dry, unforgiving.

Nadir ignored his tone and continued, "She needs somewhere to stay."

It took a genuine moment for his words to fully register in his mind. And when their meaning fully settled, Erik was appalled. "And you...you think...in my..." He laughed then, deep and dark. The girl shrunk, but he wasn't in the mood to care. "What, pray tell, is wrong with your own home, my friend?"

"Let me rephrase." Nadir held his gaze. "She needs somewhere to stay because she is hiding."

"Oh? From whom, exactly?"

"Her husband. She escaped tonight. He knows where I live, so my home is unsafe."

And at that, Erik looked - really looked - at the girl.

- - - - - - - - - -

The man looked exactly like what Christine expected an underground-dwelling hermit to be. Faceless.

He had a face. She was sure he did. But it was covered by a porcelain mask that allowed only his eyes, lower lip, and chin to remain visible. His salt and pepper hair was oiled back, and his eyes were mismatched - the right was green and the left brown. He was abnormally tall and thin. Imposing in stature and powerful in stance. His well-tailored suit and polished black shoes also spoke of obvious wealth.

He'd glanced at her once or twice, but mostly kept his gaze on Nadir. Now, however, he did look at her. She couldn't help retreat a step. Her guardian had said he knew this man well, and she trusted his judgement. He'd said he wouldn't hurt her. She tried to trust that too. She had to remember that not every man was her husband.

Erik - that's what this stranger was called - took in the features of her face. Then his eyes traveled down and found her neck. Bruised, she knew. Claude kept his hands, generally, below the neck so that when he took her out in public, no one would suspect a thing. He also normally locked her in their bedroom when he wasn't home. He pushed the dresser in front of the door as well before they slept. Boarded up the room's windows - all that trouble, so that she'd not escape. Her only freedom from that room was when he was home and she could wander the apartment. Or when he made a show to the world of what a good husband he was by taking her to fancy dinners or to the park.

Oh, and what an excellent actor he was. He'd convinced her when they first met that he was a perfect gentleman. He'd maintained the act all the way until the wedding. And then his true self appeared - the mask came off.

That he'd been so drunk tonight as to touch her somewhere visible - the skin just under her jaw - and then forget to move the dresser in front of the door. Too drunk to wake up when she grabbed her clothes, slipped out of the bedroom, changed, and ran.

Before, when the beatings had been accompanied by apologies, she at least had the apologies to look forward to. But he'd grown either tired or apathetic of feigning regret. Why waste energy pretending to be sorry so that she didn't leave, when he could simply bolt the door instead?

Erik stared at the bruise at her neck, then looked back to Nadir. "I make the presumption, then, that she is hiding from him due to cruelty on his part?"

"Yes, my friend."

His lip twisted in disgust. It didn't seem performative. It seemed automatic. Like it was genuinely distasteful to him. She relaxed a fraction.

"Well," said Erik. His voice, she noticed, was like silk. Smooth. Beautiful. Gentle on the senses. "Nadir, you've outdone yourself this time. Putting me in quite the bind. Because I think you know I can't say no, don't you?"

Nadir actually chuckled at that. "You always did have a weakness for the helpless."

"And I should kill you for taking advantage of that, you manipulative Persian bastard."

"But you won't."

Erik sighed like he certainly wanted to.

"So you'll house her, then?"

Erik's eyes went to Christine again, for a while. Then he looked away. "I will have a clearer head to make a decision over coffee." He made a flourish of his arm and bowed. "Come - come to my humble abode and let's discuss this like gentlemen." He stood. "By the fire. Not by the damn lake."

Chapter Text

Christine had stepped into a dark fairytale - one of goblins and ghouls and mazes made of stone and secret underground lairs. She'd been in shock when Nadir took out a key and brought her through a secret entrance from outside the Paris Opera, an iron gate on Rue Scribe that led into what she'd thought was the gutter. It actually led to winding passages, hundreds of hallways, all of which went down. Down beneath Paris, where there was no light save for what one brought themselves. Nadir explained to her that anyone who didn't know where they were going could potentially get lost in here, never finding their way out again.

He explained that it was designed for that express purpose.

It hadn't fully hit her how truly dream-like, how uncanny, the situation was until the masked man named Erik told her and Nadir to get into the boat.

She looked up, out into the blackness from which the man had come. It seemed never-ending. She could see the water, but nothing else. Even the ceiling of this cavernous place blended with the inky atmosphere. Had stars been dotted before her eyes, she'd have thought she was looking at the night sky. That she was in a liminal space between life and death, staring out over the precipice. Perhaps she was dead. Perhaps her husband had killed her after all.

"Come, dear girl," said Nadir to her left. She was pulled back to reality and met his eyes - kind and intelligent jade stones. He offered her his arm, and she took it. He brought her to the boat, where Erik already stood with the long pole-like oar in his hands. Nadir stepped in. Christine expected it to rock, but it was surprisingly steady. He held out his hand, and she accepted the help in getting in as well. They then lowered themselves to sit on the polished wood bench. Erik cleared his throat behind them. When she looked around at him, she realized that he was watching her intently. The moment she looked at him, though, he turned to Nadir.

"Ready?" he asked.

"Ready, my friend," replied Nadir, stretching his sixty-year-old legs. "And thank you again. May Allah bless you."

"Allah has never done a damn thing for me. Save your blessings." And with that, he rowed them into the darkness.

Christine did not share her guardian's religion. She, instead, worshipped her namesake. She wore a crucifix around her neck at all times, which she currently held tightly onto. She believed in God. In Heaven and Angels. But she'd lost faith in one Angel in particular - the Angel of Music, whom her father had promised to send her. She'd waited for ten years, and only recently, when the cruelty from Claude became unbelievably bad, did she finally give up hope that her father was looking out for her.

Speaking of her husband.

She turned to Nadir and said softly, "I was so worried you wouldn't believe me."

He looked at her, and now that she could truly focus on him, now that she felt safe, she began to cry. She'd missed everything about him - everything, from his glasses to his mustache. He saw the tears forming and pulled her into his side. A quiet sob escaped her at the motion.

She could feel Erik's eyes on their backs.

"Of course I did," Nadir said. "I knew something was wrong. When you stopped returning my letters, stopped seeing me altogether, I knew there was something. And even without proof, you are my Starlight. I would have believed you either way."

Starlight. His pet name for her growing up. She'd missed that too.

Memories flooded of him tucking her in at night the months after her father died, kissing her forehead. "You will see him again one day, Starlight."

More tears streamed down her face.

Christine saw, then, a house come into view. It was built of black stone, a single story in height but wide, elegant, and roofless - it connected to the ceiling of the cave. He docked at a wood mooring, tied the boat to a piece of metal that stuck up from the wood, and stepped off. Nadir stood and got off too, helping her do the same.

"Well," said Erik, and gestured with a long arm to the front door of his house. He walked that way. "Right in here, then. Make yourselves comfortable in the sitting room - Nadir, you know where it is."

"Of course."

"I will put on a pot of coffee. I know you take it black like me. Does Christine like it any particular way?"

"Cream and sugar, please," she said softly.

He gave a curt nod and opened the door to the house. He held it for Nadir and Christine to enter, his eyes on her as she passed through the doorway, then closed it behind them.

The house, despite its black stone outside, was beautiful and bright on the inside. A small chandelier lit the foyer, in which a red Persian rug covered the marble floor. The walls were painted white and light blue damask, and there were various architectural sketches hung in gilded frames. Most looked like they were of the Paris Opera itself. She wondered if they were his own drawings.

Erik walked through an archway on the other side of the foyer, and Nadir put a hand on her back and beckoned her to follow. However, when Erik continued through yet another archway, into what looked like a dining room, Nadir had them sit on the cream-colored, wood-backed couch of this room. Here, the damask walls were lined with books on one side, a fireplace on the other. It was in embers at the moment. Perpendicular to the couch was an armchair of the same style - meant solely for Erik, she was sure. At the very least, she wouldn't dare sit in it.

Beside her, Nadir rubbed at his legs. He had bad knees, she remembered, and lived on the ground floor for a reason. He and stairs had never been allies, at least while she knew him.

"Will you be able to make the journey back to the surface?" she asked him.

"Oh, yes, Christine." A warm smile at her. "I've made this trip dozens of times."

She stared at him. "Nadir, who is he? How do you know him?"

He sighed. "I've known Erik for half my life. He is my oldest friend, though your father was my closest. Not to say that Erik and I are not close, of course."

"But how do you know him?"

"He was...an entertainer for the Shah when I was in Persia. A magician. But he got into some trouble - theft, among other things - and I smuggled him out shortly before leaving myself."

"Oh, and it has been sunshine and rainbows ever since." Erik appeared in the doorway with a silver tray, upon which sat three cups on saucers. Each looked to be white china painted with red roses. "Truly, I thought I'd outrun you, Nadir, but you followed me right into my home country. Your coffee, Daroga. Christine."

He put the tray on the coffee before them and handed a cup and saucer to Nadir. He did the same for her. She didn't meet his eye, but rather kept her gaze trained on the cup. Only when Nadir took a sip did she put her lips to its rim.

Erik, with his own cup, sat in the armchair, leaning back with legs crossed. Then, to her shock, a Siamese cat with a diamond hanging from its collar appeared with a small mew on the back of the chair, eyeing her with aquamarine eyes, bright and blue.

Her face must have conveyed her surprise, for Erik looked at her, took a sip of his drink, and said, "Worry not. That would be my flatmate. Her name is Ayesha. It's her house, really, I merely maintain it."

Nadir chuckled. "Truer words were never spoken. That cat thinks she is a princess."

"And she is absolutely correct."

Ayesha hopped down onto the arm of the chair and closed her eyes as Erik scratched under her chin with a gloved finger. Contented, she went to the floor and curled up on a red pillow Christine only just noticed at the feet of the chair.

Erik noticed the fireplace. "Do let me know if either of you are cold, and I can stoke the fire."

Nadir glanced at his ward, who shook her head. "That's quite all right," he said. "We are warm enough."

Again, Erik's eyes fell on her. "So." He placed the saucer on his rail-thin thigh. "This is the girl you've mentioned. Your violinist friend's daughter. Never even knew her name until today."

"I never expected the two of you to meet."

"Neither did I." A small smile. "I'm sure Christine is just as jarred to be making my acquaintance."

She looked away. "Please excuse me if I've seemed rude."

"Not at all." His attention went to Nadir. "And regarding the matter at hand, are we sure that her staying here is the best course of action?"

"What else do you propose?"

"Well, do we think that this man really deserves to continue living at all?"

Christine's eyes went to Erik, then Nadir. Was he - suggesting-

"Murder is not an option." Nadir stared steadily at Erik, who stared right back. "How did I know you'd suggest that?"

"Because that's the funny thing about murderers, Nadir. They murder once in a while." He looked at Christine, who'd paled. "Not to worry, my dear. I've a very strict rule against killing the fairer sex. I only kill men like your darling husband. Grown men with evil hearts. A killer of killers, abusers, and rapists. I'm a hero, wouldn't you say?"

Christine turned to her guardian. "Nadir..."

"He will not harm you. I've known Erik a very long time. He will not harm you, I swear. I do not...condone the killings at all, but he speaks true when he says he only kills cruel men. Never women or children or animals. Never innocent men."

Christine calmed a fraction. But only a fraction. He was still a murderer. But she would rather take a chance with the killer who likely wouldn't hurt her, than with the man who absolutely would. And her guardian would only take her here if this was truly the best option - if there was truly nowhere else safe she could go.

"If her husband dies mysteriously," continued Nadir to Erik, "the first person the authorities would suspect is Christine. She has bruises and scars all over her." Erik's eyes flashed at that. "Or me. I'm her father-figure. Or both. She'd have to go into hiding either way. So would I."

"Only ten years my senior, Nadir, and you seem to think I would be as sloppy as a child. I'm sure I could make it look like an accident-"

"No." Christine's voice was barely above a whisper. Both men looked at her, and she continued, "I do not want him killed. I would not be able to live with his death on my conscience, no matter how badly he treated me."

And, she didn't want to admit, there was a part of her that still loved him - the man he'd been when she first met him. Even if that hadn't truly been who he was.

Erik's eyes were chilly. "Fine. I'll stay my hand." Then, to Nadir, "I must ask you, my friend, how you could ever let your ward marry a man like that in the first place."

It was Christine who spoke again. "He wasn't always like that. Not in the beginning. It's not his fault. It's mine."

"Christine-" Nadir protested, but she continued.

"There were some signs. He was too perfect - charming, showered me with gifts, wanted to move the courtship very fast. I'd thought he simply loved me that much. He was only trying to lure me in. After we married, it started out with...just...yelling. Hitting the wall to scare me. Insults and belittling. Then it was physical. Each time, he said he was sorry and would change. Instead, it became worse. I should have run a long time ago. I just hoped-"

She ran out of words. Her throat simply refused to emit any more. No tears. Nothing. Like her very body was shutting down against the memory.

A long silence. Nadir put his hand on her shoulder. She barely felt it.

Finally, Erik leaned over and put his cup of coffee on the tray. His voice was grave and cold, death itself given sound. "She can stay." He stood, not meeting anyone's gaze. "Unfortunately, I think I've grown...weary. I will be working on my music. Sit. Enjoy your coffee. There is more in the kitchen, should you desire it. Inform me when you are leaving, Nadir, and I will show Christine to her sleeping quarters and bring you across the lake. Please also send word to Jules for items she will need, preferably tomorrow." He started for the archway to the foyer. "You know where to find me."

Chapter Text

One upon a time, there lived a king who turned everything he touched to gold. He was a handsome young man, but no woman in the kingdom wanted their flesh gilded; so one day, the king decided to hide his ability by wearing a pair of gloves on his visit to a secluded village. He visited the hillside cottages day and night, searching for an eligible girl. Great fortune fell upon him: he found one. She was no noblewoman - goodness no; but she was lovely, and would make a beautiful queen. He married her straightaway. At first, this girl was thrilled by her luck.

But then he touched her. Again and again, he touched her. Everywhere he touched changed from pale and pink to shimmering gold.

It hurt. Badly. She was horrified. Frightened and in pain. She begged him to stop.

He wouldn't.

Within a year, she was a girl made entirely of gold. She could move easily. Speak. All of her senses were perfectly intact. But her flesh was altered. Her soul too - every inch of her glittering skin was a reminder that she was no longer her own. She was the king's. And she no longer wanted to be.

A kind wizard who lived in a tower not far from the palace learned of this girl's plight from the bluebirds who whispered to him secrets of the kingdom. He used his magic to take the girl from her chambers. He brought her in the dead of night to a mighty, frightful black dragon who guarded an abandoned castle in the middle of a dark forest. The trees of this forest changed shape and position every minute, ensuring that no one who went in ever made it out again. Around the castle was a moat, deep and full of monsters. Not crossable but for those who had the dragon's permission.

Luckily, the wizard and dragon were friends, two ancient magical beings who'd seen the world shift and grow over the centuries. The wizard asked the dragon to hide the girl. At first, the dragon refused. But then he saw how she shined yellow in the light.

This dragon hoarded gold. Protected it. He was obsessed with it.

So he accepted.

The gilded girl entered the dragon's lair.

- - - - - - - - - -

Christine's only interaction with Erik for the rest of the evening before she slept was when he showed her to her room. It was, according to him, a guest bedroom - though she found this extremely surprising. That he had guests visiting long enough to warrant an entire bed for them was dubious at best. How many people, exactly, visited him? And for what length of time? Or was this bed only for Nadir when he stayed the night?

She racked her brain for the memory of a night that Nadir hadn't come home, but came up with nothing. Perhaps that had changed after she moved in with Claude. Perhaps her perceived abandonment of him had pushed him to spend some nights with this underground hermit.

Erik asked her if she would be wanting any tea for the night.

"No," she said, keeping her gaze down, sitting on the foot of the bed. Nadir was gone now, taken back across the lake while Christine waited on the couch. They'd said goodbye before he promised to return tomorrow. "No, thank you, M. Erik."

"Erik is just fine," he responded in the doorway, and again she was struck by how lovely his voice was. Like velvet, black and smooth. Comforting and dark. "Water, then?"

"No. I am fine."

"All right." He glanced at the vanity table, at which the mirror was covered with a white cloth. "If you do become thirsty, you are welcome to the kitchen. Have a good night, Christine."

"You too," she said softly, and he closed the door. She waited for his footsteps to fade, then went to the doorknob, hoping to lock or bolt it, but found no such luck. The door could be opened and closed at his discretion, and there was nothing she could do about it.

Unnerved, she went to the bed. She was without any clothing save for what was currently on her person - and she certainly wasn't going to undress if this man could open the door while she slept. It was cool enough down here that wearing her day-dress to bed wouldn't be too terrible. She simply wouldn't cover herself with a blanket - not that a blanket would protect her anyway.

Christine closed her eyes and blew out a breath. Nadir trusted him. She would trust him too. She would try.

One thing was certain, though - she would not be turning off the light on the bedside table. There were no windows here, just walls covered in art. Beautiful works. The fact that he covered the rest of his home in architectural drawings and this room with paintings was an interesting choice. Perhaps he did so because his "guests" would like it better?

All of the furniture matched - white polished wood, flowery shapes carved into the edges of surfaces. It appeared older, antique, though no less sturdy than the couches and tables throughout the rest of his house.

House.

How odd to call this place a house. This underground place. But what else could she name it? It had a kitchen, a parlor, a dining room, and obviously had at least two bedrooms. It had four walls and a roof. It was a house. A house in an underground cave on a lake beneath the Paris Opera House, of all things.

She laid on her side, closed her eyes, and let out a sigh. Though she had expected not to be able to fall asleep, the exhaustion of the day had other ideas. The moment her eyelids met, her mind was gone from the waking world.

- - - - - - - - - -

Christine awoke in her bed. Not the bed Erik had given her, but her own bed. The one she shared with her husband. And there, in the moonlight, Claude was lying next to her. She was naked. They'd been intimate. Rather, he'd been intimate with her - she hadn't had a say in the matter.

And though it was clearly very late at night, he was awake. Watching her, eyes like green knives that pierced her chest, through her heart, to her soul. Her breath caught. It had been a dream. Her freedom - it hadn't been real. She was still trapped in this apartment with him. And she'd never, ever escape.

"Had a good dream?" he asked, venom on his tongue.

"What?" she whispered.

"You talk in your sleep sometimes," he explained, yellow mustache twitching. "You want to leave, eh? You want to leave me behind? Still, Christine? You asked for more trips to the park, and I gave you that. You promised you'd never try to leave the house without me again."

"No. No, I don't. I-"

"Perhaps we don't have to go to the park anymore." He rolled onto his side, slid his hand over her neck. "Perhaps we never have to go anywhere. Ever again."

He went on top of her and wrapped both hands around her throat. He squeezed. She cried out, though her windpipe was blocked, and no sound came out. She tried to pry his hands away, but they wouldn't budge. She couldn't breathe. Spots formed in the corner of her vision and she closed her eyes. Tears leaked from them. She was going to die. He was actually going to kill her. She-

"Christine."

Her eyes opened and she sat straight up with a terrible gasp.

No. Not in her bed at home. Claude was not here. She was in the guestroom of Erik's house. And Erik himself stood in the doorway. He watched her with wide, dark eyes. One hand on the knob of the opened door, one clenched at his side.

"You cried out," he said. "When I opened the door, you were breathing hard. Are you all right?"

"Yes," she said. "I'm sorry."

A pause. "Nightmare?"

A small nod. She brought her knees inward, to her chest.

"Wait here. I will make you tea." He turned.

"No, it's-"

"I'm making you tea. Drink it or not, I don't care. But I am making it."

She nodded again, and rested her chin on her knees. Minutes later, he returned with a cup. He entered the room, which made her muscles tense, and placed the cup on the nightstand. She could smell it from where she sat - mint, with something else.

"You didn't have to," she whispered, staring at the cup.

"Of course I didn't have to. But mint clears my mind, while chamomile soothes it."

At the gentleness in his voice, she finally looked at him. He, for once, wasn't looking at her, but instead stared again at the vanity.

"You can take that sheet down, if you'd like," he said. "But if you know I might walk in - which will not be often, I assure you - please kindly put it back up."

"The mirror?" she asked.

He nodded. "I don't like them. Mirrors." A glance at her. They met each other's eyes for only a moment, then he looked away and started again for the door. "Goodnight again, Christine."

Strange man. Very strange.

And harmless, if Nadir was correct. A murderer, apparently, but harmless to her.

She looked at the cup of tea. Nadir trusted him. Nadir. Her kind, intelligent guardian trusted this man with her life. So there had to be a reason for that.

If she was honest with herself, the tea smelled wonderful. And she wanted it badly. Chamomile calmed her mind, too.

Should she truly live here for an undetermined amount of time, then she could not be fearing every cup or plate he put in front of her. She couldn't be fearing harm at his hand.

Christine wanted the tea. But more than that, she wanted not to be alone. Alone with her thoughts. Alone with her scars and bruises. Alone with the memory of Claude at the forefront of her mind.

He began closing the door, when she said, "Wait."

He turned his head sharply in her direction. "Yes?"

"Leave it open a crack, please."

He blinked in surprise. "Why?"

"So that it is easier for you to hear. Just...in case I need you."

Incredulous mismatched eyes stared back. His mouth parted just slightly, like he was hearing her ask the monster under the bed for a bedtime story. But then he composed himself, and nodded. "All right."

He did as she asked, leaving it open the width of her hand. As he walked away, she was comforted this time by the sound of his footsteps. She couldn't explain why - just knowing that he wasn't her husband was enough. Perhaps the dream had merely rattled her so much that anyone who wasn't Claude was a comfort in themselves.

Christine picked up the tea and took a sip.

When she didn't immediately fall dead, she took another.

Chapter Text

For a moment upon waking, Erik was sure that last night had been a dream. Perhaps he'd had a bit too much wine, or perhaps the coffee grounds Jules bought had somehow spoiled. Perhaps he'd finally gone truly insane from the solitude. After all, why would he ever in his right mind accept a woman into his home? Why would he ever agree to keep her down here with him? He was the Phantom of the Opera - an urban monster. The thought was ridiculous.

But then he rose from his coffin - a furnishing detail he used to humor himself; he looked like a corpse, so it was only fitting. He changed into his day-clothes, and saw his mask resting on his dresser. The bed and dresser were the only two pieces of furniture in this room. Otherwise it was bare, and quite small. Half the size of the "guestroom". No decoration, no rug. Only the coffin and a dresser with a lamp on it. And unwelcoming space, but his bedroom nonetheless; as such, all of his clothes were here. Except for his mask. That was always kept by the front door. He normally only needed it outside of his house.

But he remembered within seconds the reason for its placement here. Erik would climb down the ladder to Hell itself before he walked around the house without a mask, with another human person present. So he'd had no choice but to wait until he climbed into his coffin-bed to take it off.

And he remembered, too, the reason he'd agreed to take her in. The bruise at her neck. The look of anguish and horror on her face when she spoke of her husband. Whatever spark of warmth that still existed in Erik's cold, black heart had been stoked, and he'd been unable to say no.

Good thing he hadn't, as well. Barely in bed ten minutes, and she had a nightmare. No doubt, her spouse had been the subject. She'd been so frightened by her dream's contents that she found him - Erik - to be a comfort. Keeping her door ajar, just in case she needed him. Just in case she called out - she wanted him to hear. A first for Erik, that was certain.

That warmth in his heart had spread an inch.

He left his bedroom, ensured that the door was firmly closed, and made his way to the kitchen - where he was surprised to find Christine already there. The moment he was in the entryway, her gaze snapped up and she gave a small jump of shock. Before her was a cup of tea, in her hand a spoon. Her hair was bedraggled, and there were dark circles around her eyes. Erik guessed, then, that she hadn't slept soundly after his visit.

"Sorry, Monsieur, I hope I-" She bit her lip. "You said last night that I was welcome to the kitchen."

"Spooked by me?" he asked, not moving from where he stood.

She blinked. "No - no, that's not... I apologize. It's just that you were so quiet. I didn't know you were coming."

Yes, he thought, being the Phantom had taught him to walk on silent feet. Last night, he'd only made his footsteps known so that she knew he was walking away to give her privacy.

"You are welcome to the kitchen," he said. "That statement still stands, and will continue to stand for however long you are here."

She nodded, and he saw the thought in her eyes. It was the same one he was thinking: However long that might be.

"I made a pot of tea," she said softly, looking at the stove.

"I can see that."

She lowered her voice, a sheep talking to a wolf. "There's enough for more than just me, if you'd care for some."

He would, actually.

At that, Erik finally entered. Christine stiffened, just barely, probably involuntarily, and he tried to ignore it - but it irked him down to his core, made his mouth taste sour. Perhaps the tea would help.

She watched him pour a cup for himself, watched his hands. He thinned his lips when he realized: he'd forgotten his gloves. Now she could see the shape of his fingers, the coloring - splotches of yellow, veiny, and not unlike a skeleton's in the way the bones and skin seemed to touch without a cushion of fat between. He was hyper-aware of them, of her eyes, as he brought the cup to his lips.

"Monsieur," she said, "might I ask you something?"

He swallowed, brought the cup down, and met her gaze - blue pools of trepidation. "Yes."

"Why do you wear a mask?"

Fear, an emotion he hadn't felt in years, slithered down his spine. Oily and cold. He hated these...pesky negative feelings, had thought that he'd done away with them by going underground and isolating himself. When he was younger, he'd considered smoking from the opium pipe, or perhaps using the morphine needle, or even drinking wine to excess, to get rid of them. But smoke would ruin his voice, and he didn't dare alter his mind with substances. His voice and mind were the only two parts of himself that he loved, and he wouldn't ruin them no matter how much pain he was in.

So he took that fear and suppressed it, then looked away. "Except for that. You may not ask that."

- - - - - - - - - -

Nadir knew who was at the door before he opened it.

The sun had only just risen, but he'd been up for hours. He wanted to go to Jules Bernard as soon as he could to inform him of the fact that Christine was staying with Erik, and that she'd be needing clothing and various other living supplies. He wouldn't bother the man at four in the morning, though. He wanted to wait until at least eight.

But when the knock on his door came at just after seven, hard and insistent, he quickly finished his coffee before going to his front door. He composed himself, fashioned his expression into one of innocence and confusion, if not a bit of concern, and opened it.

There, as expected, was Claude Porcher. He looked as though he'd dressed quickly, one button on his waistcoat undone. His blonde hair was clearly uncombed, and his eyes were still tinged a bit pink from his drinking the night before. His nostrils flared above his mustache, stubbled chin creasing as he pursed his lips.

"Claude!" said Nadir with faux shock. "It's been...why, it's been over a year since I've seen you or Christine, hasn't it? To what do I owe this visit?"

He sucked his teeth. "I think you know."

"Well, I...I don't, I assure you. Is everything all right, dear boy?"

Claude exhaled through his nose sharply, eyes cutting into Nadir.

The older man blinked at him. "What's happened? Is Christine hurt, or ill? She hasn't visited me in quite some time, nor has she written back, so I wouldn't know if- Well I'm being rude, aren't I? Come in, Claude, out of the chilly morning air."

Christine's husband flicked his brows up. Good. Throw him off a bit. A man hiding another man's wife would not be inviting him into his home.

"Thank you." Claude kept his eyes on Nadir as he entered. As the door clicked shut, he scanned the room, as if searching for evidence of female life. "You know, M. Khan, I don't think I have ever seen beyond your parlor."

Nadir chuckled. "You've seen my dining room. Before you were married, you supped with us several times."

"That I did." He looked at him again. "Mind giving me a tour of your home?"

Nadir feigned surprise again. "Well...no, I don't mind, I suppose. But did you really come here so early to receive a tour? Rather...spontaneous of you. I didn't take you for the spontaneous type."

"Christine is gone, Nadir."

"Gone!" He forced his face to look stricken. He brought a hand to his chest. "What do you mean? In what sense?"

"M. Khan."

"Dead? Allah above. Has she passed?"

"I would very much appreciate it if you did not play dumb."

"I am not - Claude, this is my ward we are talking about. When you say 'gone', what do you-"

"She was not in bed when I awoke."

"Ah." Nadir relaxed. "That's all? Well, that's nothing. Perhaps she has gone shopping. Or for a walk. Maybe she didn't want to wake you."

His jaw worked, and Nadir wanted to smile with silent satisfaction. Porcher was realizing just how much of an overreaction this was to anyone else. This was the reaction of a man whose horse escaped its stable, not a wife that was gone from the house earlier than usual and forgot to leave a note.

"I thought, perhaps, she would come here first," Claude finally said lowly, "as you were her guardian."

"Unfortunately, she has not. I am sure she will return-"

"She had to have come here."

Nadir frowned. "She didn't. I'm sorry to tell you this, Claude. Don't panic. It's still early in the morning. Really, dear boy - no need to worry." He nodded to the entrance to the rest of the apartment. "Still care for a tour? Though, if you wanted one to see if she's come to my apartment, you won't find her here."

A long silence between them. Claude's chest rose and fell, a machine fuming, then: "What I do with my wife, M. Khan, is no one's business but my own."

Nadir responded slowly, keeping his gaze. "I am aware of a man's rights to his wife, M. Porcher. I was married once too. But what does this have to do with the matter at hand?"

Claude's eyes were icy as he said, "Give me the tour."

So Nadir did. He first offered him tea - listing off, with deliberation, every single flavor he had. Green. Mint. Chamomile. Bohea. Earl gray. Zavarka. Chai. Chai was Nadir's favorite. But, alas, Claude was not interested in tea.

"Something to eat, perhaps? I have strawberries. Some toast with jam."

"No, M. Khan." Claude struggled to keep the civility in his voice. "Thank you."

"Not even some milk? Fruit juice, maybe - oh, I can make you some coffee."

"No. Thank you."

"All right. This way, then. We can start with Christine's old room - the guestroom, now, naturally."

Nadir made a show of pretending his knee was bothering him. It was, actually, but not enough to give him the limp he was currently walking with. This meant that they were going from room to room with extreme slowness. And, he spent ten to fifteen minutes spewing complete bullshit about each space.

"Ah, yes, and in the study I often find a little owl outside the window. Isn't that something? An owl! You know that the Greek goddess of wisdom's symbol was the owl? How fitting! Though I wouldn't call myself as wise or skilled as Athena, of course - don't want to find myself turning into a spider."

He laughed at his own obscure joke. Claude regarded him like he was a looney old man spewing nonsense, but forced a smile as well. "Yes. That's...amusing."

Nadir didn't protest as Claude examined the furniture of each room. It was exceedingly clear that he was looking for something - signs of his wife, hiding spots. He didn't bother masking his intentions. Though searching the furniture took only a couple of minutes, Nadir made him wait while he talked. Claude's impatience was palpable.

When he let out a quiet growl of frustration, Nadir tsked. "I've told you, my boy, she is not here."

"I heard you, Nadir." His tone was clipped. "I heard you."

"I also told you that it's very possible she's simply out. Why would I hide her from you? What reason would I have to do that?"

Claude shot him a glare. "Right."

And, of course, though Claude was in his apartment for close to an hour, he found nothing. Nadir tried to hide his smirk as Christine's husband shook his head, fury draining the color from his cheeks.

"Do let me know if she doesn't return, will you?" Nadir held the door open for him. Clouds colored the world gray. "That would be cause for great concern."

"I think if that happens, it would be time to go to the police, yes?"

When Nadir, jolted by that response, didn't immediately answer, Claude froze. Studied his face.

Nadir recovered and smiled ruefully. "Yes, I suppose it would."

"Yes." He nodded. "It would. If she's not back by tonight, I think I shall go to the police."

"Good. Yes." Nadir felt his heart skip. He hadn't considered a police investigation - but, Allah, how had he not? Of course the police would end up involved. As the former chief of police of Persia, this should have been the first thing to cross his mind. Perhaps Erik was right and he really was going senile.

To the rest of the world, this would become a case of a missing woman. And so long as a man didn't kill his wife, beating her was perfectly legal - so should Christine be caught, she'd be returned to him straightaway.

Though, really, did this change anything? Erik was careful when it came to hiding - he'd no doubt be careful with her too. In all the years he'd lived underground, only Nadir had found the way to his home. Christine was in the safest place she could be. But it was the thought of the police looking for her, even if they never found her, that set his heart racing.

Claude's lips twitched. He tilted his head, a fox spotting a hare's den. "You would be in support of involving the police, I should hope?"

"Yes, my boy, of course." Nadir continued to smile. He was no hare.

"And you'd even go so far as to speak to an investigator?"

"I would! Absolutely, yes." Nadir's mind raced, already forming what he'd say. Easy, that - he went to bed last night, woke up, and suddenly Claude was at his door. "I'm not sure what I could provide of use, but I would be happy to speak what I know. Though, like I said, I think we are getting ahead of ourselves. Let's wait until she is actually missing - which I hope is not the case."

"Let's hope." Claude eyed him a moment longer, then added, "Good morning, M. Khan."

"Good morning."

Nadir watched Claude leave his apartment. He waited five, then ten, then twenty minutes. And then he set off to find Jules Bernard.

After Jules, he'd visit the gate at Rue Scribe. When it came to that gate, an iron-wrought thing that was out in the open, the trick to entering during the day was to appear nonchalant. To appear like one was supposed to be going inside, like it was his job to enter. That way, curious looks only lasted a few seconds before people shrugged and said, "Ah, well - perhaps that man maintains the underside of the Palais Garnier. Not a job I'd like to have, poor soul."

So Nadir needed to wipe the shaken expression off of his face. Now.

Besides, his look of anxiety would only exacerbate whatever shock Jules would have at finding out that his frightening master was harboring a young woman.

Calm, Nadir.

Calm.

Chapter Text

The gilded girl quaked at the sight of the dragon. He was larger than any beast she'd ever seen - he filled the halls of the decrepit castle, and his eyes, red and glowing, gazed down at her with fascination as she cowered beneath him.

"Never," he said, his voice a deep rumble, black rocks tumbling in a winter avalanche, "have I seen a little human with such pretty skin." His long neck curled around her as he stared at the flesh she so hated. The dragon's dark scales shimmered in the moonlight that poured through the high windows. "How, tiny creature, did you become this way?"

"The king." She surprised herself with her ability to speak to this monster. "My husband."

"Your husband," he repeated, cocking his head. She felt the heat of his breath as it blew from his nostrils. "You are the queen, then."

"Yes," she whispered.

"I have not heard of you."

"He hides me away. Many forget I exist."

"That is a pity." His face came a bit closer, causing the girl's heart to leap to her head, making her dizzy. "You are the only mortal human that has ever been worth knowing."

And though the girl should have been flattered, his words only made her soul wither. To be worth knowing only because she had been altered by the man who hurt her - this was not what she wanted. But all she could do was bow her head to the dragon and say, with as much grace as she could muster: "Thank you for your kindness."

- - - - - - - - - -

Nadir decided barely a minute after leaving his apartment that he would, in actuality, not be going to Rue Scribe today.

He knew for a fact that Claude Porcher was not following him. Even years after retiring as daroga, he had a keen, quick eye, and could spot a face within seconds even in the largest crowd. But, though he didn't once see him, he could not help but start at every yellow mustache, every watching pair of green eyes.

He had to go to Jules Bernard. There was no helping that - Christine needed clothes to wear, and she had left nothing with Nadir when she moved in with her husband. But if Nadir was this nervous to be merely walking to Erik's assistant, then it was not a good idea to be walking to Erik himself. That would be just what Christine needed: her husband finding her in Erik's lair. At that point, the Phantom would murder both of them, and then send Christine packing to another city with only a prayer and her tears to help her.

He took one last long glance around himself as he reached Jules's building. He kept his head high and entered. M. Bernard lived on the first floor, the first door on his right when he came in. He knocked.

Nadir fashioned his face into pleasant nonchalance just in time for the door to open. Jules Bernard raised his red brows at the person standing in his doorway. He was taller than Nadir, though this wasn't a great feat. The former daroga barely towered over Christine, and she had always been small.

"Well, good morning, M. Khan." He glanced behind Nadir, searching for someone who wasn't there, relieved that he didn't find them. "Why...to what do I...how may I help you? Is it something with..."

"It does involve Erik, yes." He smiled warmly. "Nothing is wrong, M. Bernard. I assure you." Depending, of course, on one's definition of 'wrong'.

"You've never come to me about Erik before."

"I've never had to before."

"Right." Jules frowned, but stood to the side, gesturing to the inside of his home. "Come in, M. Khan."

"Thank you." Nadir removed his hat as he entered, placing it on the coatrack. "How are you, M. Bernard?"

"Calling me Jules is perfectly fine."

"Then so is calling me Nadir."

"Understood, Nadir." He finally offered a small smile and closed the door. "And I am well. Annette." He looked at a dark-haired woman with a child on her lap, a book open before them. "Would you mind taking Patrice to his room to read?"

"Of course, dear." She slid the boy off of her lap and patted his back, escorting him away. "Good morning, M. Khan."

"Good morning, Madame."

Jules watched his wife leave the area with baited breath.

"I am well too, Jules."

His eyes went to Nadir, and he nodded. "Forgive my rudeness. Your visit was unexpected. I apologize."

"No need, my friend."

"Care for something to drink?"

"No, thank you."

"Then let's sit regardless. Here." He took a seat on the couch, and Nadir did the same. Jules clasped his hands before him and leaned forward. "Please, what has happened?"

Nadir stretched his legs before him. "I will need some supplies delivered to Erik's home by the end of the day today."

"You will? Or he will?"

"Both, I suppose. Here." Nadir reached into the pocket of his trousers and brought out a list. He handed it to Jules, who looked down at it for barely ten seconds before his gaze jerked back up.

"These are for a woman."

"Yes."

"Er-" He leaned back. "Does he have a guest?"

"He does, in fact. My ward."

Jules stared at Nadir, brow furrowed, nodding his head slowly. "Ah."

"And," he said, "I suppose I should explain why."

- - - - - - - - - -

Whenever she was frightened, in the dark and recovering from a nightmare, Christine's father would hold her close and tell her fairy tales. Tales of knights and dragons and curses. Tales of kings and queens living in faraway forests of faraway lands. Of wizards in tall, ivy-lined towers that blended in with surrounding cliffs. They always worked. Her father was famed for his violin, but he was just as skilled when it came to storytelling - at least, little Christine thought so.

She continued that tradition long after he died, telling herself stories he'd made up when she was lonely or couldn't sleep, and lately, when she knew her husband was coming home soon. She was never able to make ones of her own. She could think of characters but never a plot. So she turned to her fathers' time and again.

But now, she couldn't remember a single one.

Not while that music played from somewhere in the underground house. Violin music. As good, if not better, than her father's playing.

Fears had sprouted as she sat alone in the parlor, watching the fire. She considered reading, but the thought of cozying up with a book on the couch of a murderer seemed somehow...not right. She wasn't scared of him - he'd had plenty of opportunities by now to take her life. But this situation was still entirely too strange, and she continuously imagined that the door to the house would open and in would walk Claude.

It was improbable. Entirely so. But her mind churned with terror at the idea.

So she'd attempted to think of a fairy tale.

And the music started immediately after.

Christine knew it was Erik, even if he hadn't been the only other person in the house. Nadir had mentioned that he was a musician. But, God, she hadn't expected...this. The sound of the violin was something from a dreamscape, the overture to Heaven's own symphony. Had her father's music been this good? Even close to this good? She liked to think it had, but that might have been mere fond nostalgia, the memories of a child in grief.

She wanted to hear more.

So she rose from her seat and made her way through the halls of the house, following the sound until she came upon a closed door. Though her hands itched to turn the knob of the door, she didn't dare interrupt him. She instead leaned against the wall, closed her eyes, and listened.

Images of her father filled her mind, like pages of a picture book flipping one after the other. His smiling, laughing face in the park, sunshine bringing out the blue of his eyes and the notes of red in his hair. The line that appeared between his brows when he became stuck learning a particularly tricky piece of music. The blank, serene expression that he had just before he dozed off on the couch while Christine read him a story - and then the smirk, one eye open, when she yelled that he wasn't listening.

The music stopped, and with it, the images. Her eyes opened. She was once more in Erik's house, ten years removed from her father. Both of them were deep under the ground, but he was dust and bones while she lived on without him.

Christine heard a shuffling within, like feet adjusting, then three short, tuneless hums in succession. A muttering. Footsteps. She realized too late what that the latter sound meant.

The door opened. Christine gave a yelp, covering her mouth with her hand. Erik, too, looked shocked - as shocked as one could look with a mask on, at least. Eyes wide, lips parted. One hand gripped the doorframe and the other went out as though to grab, or perhaps shield himself. His fingers were spread out, taut, bent. Claw-like.

When he saw it was only her, his hand came down. Christine, however, felt her heartbeat in every cell of her body. Flashes of Claude reaching out to grab her hair went through her mind, vivid and lingering. While Erik seemed to calm, she struggled to find her footing in reality.

As though her husband was really here, Christine brought her other hand to her mouth, closed her eyes, and prepared for...something. Energy, like the need to run, pumped through her veins, but she couldn't move. Her breath accelerated. Within seconds, she found that she couldn't get her lungs under control.

Erik watched. She felt his eyes on her. Shame for her reaction flooded her stomach.

"I'm...sorry." Her voice shook. She gulped. "I heard...the music."

"I didn't know you were there." His voice was low. It wasn't an accusation, but rather an explanation. Almost an apology.

"I...sorry-"

"I frightened you." There was an odd quality to his tone. Not quite angry, but... It only sent another flash of fear through her mind.

"You...no! I...it's my fault. I...should have...knocked. I just...it was...I wanted to hear." She opened her eyes, to find a darkness in his eyes. "I'm sorry. Please don't-" She didn't know how to finish the sentence, felt her face heat, and looked down. "I'm sorry. You played...beautifully. I shouldn't have...intruded."

There was a palpable silence between them, save for her heavy breath. It refused to pacify. The panic had an iron grip on her. She shook her head tightly every few seconds, willing for it to go away. It didn't listen. If anything, it tugged even harder.

When Erik finally spoke, his voice had become markedly gentler. "You like music, Christine?"

She nodded. "My father...played violin."

"And would you like to hear more?"

She met his mismatched eyes again, high above her where they watched. They, too, had become more tender.

"No harm will come to you here. I am not angry with you," he continued. "And I did not intend to frighten you."

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Music eases my nerves."

She nodded. Hers too.

"I'm sure Nadir informed you of my musical genius."

Despite herself, she breathed a laugh. "He mentioned it."

"He's good for something, then."

Jokes. He was telling jokes. She made herself smile. Her breathing was beginning to come back to normal.

"I have a chair in my music room that you can sit in. Perhaps you could be the judge of that genius, my dear." His soft voice was increasingly playful, so different from the annoyed, glib tone he'd used the night before with Nadir - different from even the emotionless tone he'd given her in the guestroom and in the kitchen. "I've been playing for only myself for years - who knows? I may very well have lost my touch."

"No. The violin was wonderful."

"Piano, then. I'm positive I've become rusty on the piano. Care to hear?"

The warm kindness with which he was speaking to her was like an embrace. It was that relief all over again, the same that she'd felt when Nadir held her. Tears formed in her eyes. For months, the rapid beat of her heart and apologies from her lips between gasps had been met with anger and pain - not this. Erik was showing her compassion.

And yet he had murdered.

The way that he spoke to her, in that moment, she didn't believe it. It had to have been true - he and Nadir both admitted that it was so - but Claude seemed closer to a killer than he did. The people that Erik had ended had to have been evil. She would have believed nothing else. Tall, imposing, and difficult to make eye contact with, he'd nonetheless done nothing but make her feel safe and welcome in just under twelve hours.

The fact that she still found this place, and his appearance, unsettling was not his fault.

"I would," she said, and wiped the tears away. "Yes, please."

Chapter Text

Claude Porcher stopped outside his apartment, the second one up from the ground. He closed his eyes, pressed his head against the door, and took a few long, slow breaths against the nausea roiling in his stomach.

He'd been cruel these past few months. Needlessly cruel, and he knew that. He knew it every time he put his hands on his wife to punish her. But she had to understand: he couldn't help the bursts of anger that exploded from him. They were like being possessed by a demon of rage, and he couldn't stop the destruction he created when overtaken.

The thing that made him the angriest was feeling small. Small and useless and deeply not good enough. He'd known he wasn't good enough for Christine, but he fell deeply for her. Their engagement had been lovely - so full of hope and light. He'd felt...good. Truly good, for the first time in a long time. The problem occurred when she remained too good for him after their marriage. It sent ripples of envy through him day after day. He knew it wasn't her fault - but he felt tiny in her presence. She was beautiful. Loving. Intelligent. He was mediocre at best.

The only time he ever felt better was when he made her afraid of him. Made her the small one, him the powerful one. But the more powerful he felt, the more she cowered, and the more he dreaded the loss of her love, her trust. He'd apologize after each bruise or scar, the guilt very real, and be sweet to her. He'd explain that he wouldn't do it again. He'd shower her with pretty words, kisses, and gifts. Only for it to start over. But the moment he would say he was sorry was the moment all was forgiven.

He didn't want her guardian knowing. He didn't want to face that embarrassment or conflict - he knew enough of Nadir's character to believe he'd trust his ward and help her somehow. Christine apparently knew that too. After one particularly...nasty incident with a hot pan, which left her hip and thigh badly burned, Christine worked up the courage to say she'd be staying with Nadir for a few days. She loved Claude, but needed time away from him for her own sanity.

Panic had gripped him. He locked the doors, boarded the windows from the inside. Caged her in the bedroom when he wasn't at home. It worked. She would be going nowhere. She wouldn't be abandoning him.

But his mistake had been ceasing the kindnesses. Every time he looked at her these past couple of months, he felt nothing but shame - and it was her fault. Her fault for making him behave like a monster. But he couldn't help it. He couldn't. It felt wrong to apologize now; he wasn't sorry. And he was in no mood to be affectionate. A few more months like this, and she'd learn her lesson. They could go back to the way things were once he no longer feared her abandonment.

Had he continued the kindnesses, the apologies, perhaps she wouldn't have slipped away in the middle of the night.

He had to find her, return her home, and tell her that he wouldn't lock her in anymore, as long as she promised to be a good, faithful wife who wouldn't run off to her guardian every time he lost his temper. Maybe, if she was the one comforting him after he hit her, rather than the other way around, he wouldn't do it so often. Maybe he could suggest that when he found her.

Claude unlocked the door to his apartment and stepped inside. It was still - incredibly so - and the door to the bedroom was ajar. Damn alcohol. Once his wife was home, he'd refrain from the beverage. She was gone now partly because the drink had made him careless.

Desperation clung to him - perhaps she was, in fact, home. Just hiding.

"Christine!" he called. "My love, are you here?"

No response, unsurprisingly. He moved through the apartment, checking every corner. Under the bed. In the cabinets. Nothing but dust.

"My darling!" he tried again, shriller this time. He was hoping she would have come to her senses; she had to know she couldn't hide from him forever...and with no money or clothes, she wouldn't last long on her own.

He was met with silence like before.

Claude clenched his jaw. He believed Christine wasn't with Nadir, but there would be no harm in checking in with him again soon. He could have hidden her somewhere - but where?

And who else could he ask? Who else might have seen-

He left the apartment and ran downstairs, hand on the wall to steady himself. He knocked on the door of the home on the first floor. A woman carrying a baby answered. Claude dipped his head politely.

"Good morning, Mme. Lavere," he said.

"M. Porcher, good day. Can I help you with something?"

"Yes. Actually." He offered her a smile. "You haven't seen Christine this morning, have you? Or last night?"

Her brow stitched. She hesitated before answering. "No. Why?"

"Maman! Breakfast!"

She turned. "One moment, Aline!" Back to Claude. "Sorry, M. Porcher. I have not seen her. Is there anything else? I'm in the middle of cooking, so unless you are in need of a plate..."

He sighed through his nose. "No. That's it. Thank you."

Mme. Lavere closed the door. More forcefully, perhaps, than he would have expected, and without a farewell, like she wanted him gone from her presence as soon as possible. Perhaps, he thought uneasily, she was simply burning her eggs.

Claude made his way, then, up two flights of stairs. Past his apartment, up to the third floor resident. He knocked on this door as well.

Mme. Valerius answered. She was an elderly widow, her husband having been a professor five years dead. She was reserved with watchful eyes, always finely dressed. Currently, silver earrings hung on either side of her head, gray hair styled up primly.

She frowned. "Yes, M. Porcher?"

"Good morning, Madame."

"It is, is it?"

Claude tried to smile - succeeded, but knew it didn't appear genuine. This woman had never liked him. The feeling was quite mutual.

"Madame, sorry to bother you this early - but you haven't seen my wife, have you?"

She cocked her head. "Odd thing to ask."

"She's...not home."

"Missing?" Her snow-blue eyes bore into him.

"It would seem."

She nodded. "Good."

His smile faltered. "Come again?"

"I know the signs of a battered woman, M. Porcher." Her pointed chin lifted. "I've seen her dead expression while passing in the staircase when you...allow her out of the apartment. I've seen the wince on her face when you lift your hand to take her arm. Men hide their cruelty well, but women's eyes always tell."

Claude paled. "I...my wife...I am not cruel-"

"Oh, save it."

"I am not-"

"Save it. You won't convince me. You think I can't hear your voices beneath my feet? And you're a fool to think your downstairs neighbors don't suspect it, either."

He sputtered. "This is...nothing but conjecture."

She scoffed. "I hope that girl flew somewhere far away. Perhaps into the arms of another, kinder man."

"Mme. Valerius...that is my wife." His mouth was dry. "Watch your tongue, please."

"I am three times your age, young man, with more money than you could dream. My tongue will do as it pleases. Good morning."

"Gave her money for a train, then?" Claude stepped forward before she could close the door. "Some clothes? A referral for a...a place to go?"

"I wish I had."

"You realize you will now be a suspect if the police investigate, correct? Your lack of concern for her whereabouts is...itself concerning."

"Hm." Her lips twisted with distaste. "Let them investigate. I've nothing to tell but the truth."

Chapter Text

The gilded girl cried.

Even her tears were golden. Golden and hard and unfamiliar, a mockery of her own life.

She never should have said yes to the King when he asked her to marry him. She never would have watched her flesh turn to metal, molested and changed by magic. She never would have needed that kind wizard to save her. And she never would have found herself lying in a long-abandoned bed, in a forgotten castle, with a beastly, menacing dragon.

She'd blamed the king. For so long, she blamed him.

But she'd been the country bumpkin that had been stupid enough to fall for his tricks.

So it was her fault, she decided that night, staring at the moon outside the shattered window.

Her fault.

She closed her eyes and wept.

All her fault.

- - - - - - - - - -

It was a full two hours that Erik played for Christine. It would have been much less time, had he not mentioned that he could sing. Because then Christine asked to hear. And Erik, after watching her panic, felt it very difficult to say no. He felt it would have been difficult to say no to much of anything she asked for right now, but he certainly wouldn't tell her that.

She'd cowered, nearly cried, cheeks red and breath ragged. Fear - he'd seen that expression from women more than any other. For a moment, he wondered if his mask was missing, as his skull-like face was the culprit of that fear normally. He didn't blame them. He couldn't look at himself either: no nose, discolored skin bearing red and yellow splotches on his forehead and sunken cheeks. His upper lip that was almost nonexistent on the right side and grew to a swollen, grotesque size on the left.

Men looked at him with terror, too, but it wasn't as pronounced. It was the look from women that hurt more. He didn't want to frighten them. Yes, he knew he'd never be loved by them, but - God, this was why he went underground. Even with his face hidden, his stature and mask unnerved people. He'd never be ordinary, have a wife, children, a place in the community. All of these thoughts had come rushing at him when Christine yelped when he appeared in the doorway then struggled to steady her breath.

He'd been shocked too, his first instinct to defend himself. But while he recovered, she apologized, gasped out an explanation, and begged him to refrain from-

She never finished the sentence.

She didn't have to.

He understood, then. It wasn't actually him she was afraid of at that moment. Something he'd done, perhaps his mere sudden appearance, had triggered the memory of her husband. That was all.

Erik's heart opened, if for the time being, the way it had when he'd first met his little Ayesha as a kitten, alone and starving and asking for help in the dead of a cold winter night. To calm Christine, to pull her from this place of pain, he offered her the first thing he could think of: music.

Music, something that always eased him no matter what.

Violin music, something familiar to her.

Piano music, something less so.

Now, his voice. A unique thing. A hypnotizing thing, he knew. It put her in a blissful trance - her mind was here, lucid, but the sound emitting from his throat had tethered her to the present moment, moored her to a land of beauty that her husband couldn't reach. His voice was everything his appearance was not. If a God existed, Erik suspected He may have been dozing while making him, mismeasuring the ingredients of loveliness and ugliness - or perhaps spilling one and then overcompensating with the other. Whoever said God made no mistakes would quickly change their tune upon feasting eyes and ears on Erik.

Whatever the case, every time he asked Christine if she was finally sick of hearing his singing, she would say no, unless he wished to stop. He, of course, never tired of music - so he pressed his fingers to the keys and continued.

He may very well have played all day had the visitor bell not rung. Jules, likely - the bell only rang a reasonable one time, so it simply could not have been Khan.

Christine, though, was hopeful that it was. "Nadir?" She stood from the chair, staring at the door to the music room. "He said he'd be back today to see me."

"Could be," he said, rising from the piano bench. "Or it's my assistant."

"Your assistant?" Her eyes went to him, and she did a poor job of hiding the surprise in her voice - if she meant to hide it at all.

"Yes, my dear, he purchases essentials - and nonessentials - for me. Can't exactly call myself a ghost if I'm seen with a basket of tomatoes at the grocer, can I?"

"A...ghost?"

He met her bewildered gaze. Ah. Yes. She didn't yet know about the Phantom. Nadir must not have told her - a good idea. No need to make her more wary than she already was.

"Never mind, Christine, ignore my nonsense." He waved the words out of the air. "I am going across the lake to see who is here and why."

He started for the door of the music room, and she blurted, "May I come?"

Erik spun to her. "You want to?"

She hesitated a moment, then nodded.

"You actually want to be out there on that dark water needlessly." He cocked his head. "The few times my assistant made the trip with me, he quaked the whole time. You yourself didn't seem to enjoy it, either."

"Nadir didn't mind it." Her voice was soft.

"No. He didn't. He never does."

A pause. She played lightly with her skirt, then admitted, "I don't want to be alone."

Erik could only stare. She would have rather been on dark, cold waters with him than alone. Just like last night, she found him to be a comfort. Just like today, before he sang to her, he realized that it wasn't him that she feared - at the very least, she feared someone or something else more.

When he made no indication of response, she lowered her eyes. "I apologize, Erik. If...you...would rather I did not...:

"It's perfectly fine with me," he said, and opened the door. "After you."

Once on the lake, as Christine sat, back to him, and looked around at the surrounding darkness, Erik watched her hands grip her seat, watched her shoulders tighten with every splash that sounded nearby - only for it to be the oar in the water. Every so often, she would turn to look at him; and, finding him there, would give the barest hint of a smile and face forward once again.

At those little expressions of trust, Erik felt the ice in his chest thaw a bit more, and he would be overcome by the urge to protect her. It wasn't affection, per se. But she was...good, he decided. Kind and gentle. A bit of good that had been brought into his life. These were rare, and had to be kept safe, for however long they stayed.

How to keep her safe, past what he was already doing, he didn't know.

He did know, however, that he had to be careful. He couldn't grow fond of her. It was uncertain how long she'd be here. Perhaps Nadir would find better, more comfortable arrangements for her soon. Erik doubted she'd want to visit him if that happened.

Not that he particularly desired her to visit. Yes, she was pleasant to know, but he hardly knew her.

The person that rang the bell at last came into view. Jules Bernard, as he'd expected. He stared at Christine as Erik docked, luggage at his side.

"Good afternoon, M. Bernard," he greeted, stepping lithely off the boat.

"Sir." Jules gave a prim bow of his head, and at last brought his eyes to his employer. "I hope you are well."

"As well as I ever am. And you?"

"I am wonderful, sir. Thank you." He nodded to Christine. "Madame."

"Monsieur," she responded.

"Allow me to introduce you," Erik flourished an arm to Christine. "M. Bernard, this is Christine Porcher. Nadir's ward, as I expect he's told you. She will be my guest for the time being."

"Nadir did tell me the story. Charmed." Jules wasn't particularly open and gregarious even at the best of times, but he appeared especially reserved now. Not cold, but certainly not toasty.

As if Erik was a cozy little hearth himself.

"And Christine, this is Jules Bernard," he continued. "My assistant."

"Pleased to meet you." She looked exactly as one would expect a woman, making acquaintances with a stranger while sitting on a boat on an underground lake, to look. Bursting with discomfort, shown in every rigid muscle and near-concerning lack of eye movement away from Jules - or lack of blinking, for that matter.

Well, she was the one who wanted to come. He had said it may not be Nadir.

"Jules can be trusted," he said to Christine, who looked at him and nodded. Erik turned to his assistant, glanced at the luggage. "I take it you've purchased Christine's essentials?"

"Yes, sir." He picked up the bag. "You'll also find inside a letter from M. Khan detailing why he cannot come here for some time."

Christine froze. "He's not coming today?"

"Unfortunately not, Madame. Nor tomorrow."

Erik watched Christine's throat bob as she looked down, and felt that the Daroga had better have a damn good reason not to see her when she clearly needed him. He then paid Jules what the man had spent plus that standard fee for his service - and he paid well, well enough to compete for his work against others who might hire him. He paid much more than a few hours of shopping generally went for, but he couldn't afford to lose him.

Besides, the toil of actually knowing Erik, of keeping his secret and trekking down to his lair once or twice a week, more than made up for his generous salary.

Erik collected the luggage full of clothes and toiletries and stepped back into the boat, placing it beside Christine. He knew Jules watched as he rowed away. He could feel the fear in the man's stare even when he couldn't see it. Fear for Christine. Some of the chill returned to Erik's heart: after all this time, after everything, Jules still did not trust him.

Chapter Text

Christine would normally have wanted to open the letter straightaway. Nadir was not one to break promises, and her curiosity was buzzing for what would have made him change his mind. She had a strong suspicion for what it was.

That suspicion was what made her take her time bathing, then dressing, then brushing her hair using the soap, clothes, and comb Jules had brought. She took a steadying breath as she at last removed the envelope from the luggage. Sitting on the foot of the bed, she hesitated, staring at the folded paper.

She did not want to read this in solitude, for fear that the news was worse than she thought. And she thought the worst already.

Christine stood, letter still enclosed in her hand, and made her way through the house and back to Erik's music room. He'd told her that he would be working in there should she need him. He was strange, and the knowledge that he had blood on his hands - guilty, evil blood, but still blood - remained at the back of her mind; but she couldn't deny that she was feeling safer with him than she had in months with Claude.

And-

And his voice.

Good God. He'd been blessed by the Angel of Music. He had to have been. There was little other explanation for the miraculous sound that had come from his throat.

Outside the music room, she listened. No violin or piano was being played, though she again heard his humming. Melodic, this time, rather than monotone, like he was trying out a tune.

Her free hand lifted to knock. Inside, she heard footsteps approaching. She was prepared now, and stood back for him to open the door. He cocked his head, staring down at her, hands on either side of the doorway.

"Yes, Christine?" He spotted the envelope, then studied her face. "Any news?"

"Not yet. I haven't opened it."

"I see." He waited. "Is there...anything else?"

"Would you mind if I opened it in here?"

His eyes flashed surprise, and he responded slowly, "No, I suppose I wouldn't mind." He made way for her to enter. She did. "Is the light poor in the guestroom?"

She paused. "No. The light is fine there." She went to the armchair, but found his cat - Ayesha, her name was - sleeping in the center of the seat. So Christine was content to stand.

"I see," he said again, and left the door open before heading to his piano. "Ayesha." He sat on the bench, leaving space next to him. "Come sit with me, darling." His bony hand patted the red leather. Ayesha rose, stretched, and obeyed. He stroked behind her ears. The cat's purrs filled the room.

"I don't think I've ever seen a cat listen to a command," marveled Christine, eyes wide in genuine disbelief.

Erik merely smiled softly, not looking at her. "The chair is open to you, my dear."

She stared. "Me or the cat? I think you mean me, but..."

He laughed, and she nearly jumped at how pleasant it sounded. Almost as beautiful as his singing voice. "You, Christine. You can sit now."

A blush raged on her cheeks, hot and red. "Thank you." She did sit.

"Do let me know what that letter says." At that, he picked up a pen and marked a sheet of music on the piano. Read it. Hummed. Marked it. Hummed.

Christine mentally braced herself and slid her fingers under the flap of the envelope. She pulled out the paper.

Her eyes would have recognized Nadir's handwriting anywhere.

-----

-Starlight,

I regret the contents of this letter even as I write it.

I cannot imagine the terror you must be feeling, underground with a stranger, hoping your husband doesn't find you, wondering where I am and why I've not come back. It is because of your husband that I cannot come. He visited me this morning, searching for you, and will involve the police when he doesn't find you. I fear that I may be watched, and so think it unsafe to see you for some time. I do not want to lead them to you. I'm sorry, dear girl.

Forever know that I love you, and know that I am confident you are safe so long as you stay where you are. Erik will take care of you and keep you hidden. You are in good hands. Fear for nothing.

Until I see you, I will keep you in my heart.

Be calm.

-Your guardian

-----

The tears were falling halfway through the letter. She read it a second time. A third. Thoughts, wild and dark, flurried in her mind. This. This was what she'd suspected. Her husband went to Nadir. He was involving the police. And her guardian wouldn't be coming. Like before, her breath went ragged, and she couldn't stop the burning, fat, fearful tears that slipped down her cheeks like liquid fire. They came from a place of simmering anger, a volcano of resentment and fury and sadness for all that had transpired and all that would. She closed her eyes and tried to steady herself.

Calm, Christine. Calm.

Nadir said to be calm.

Don't fret. Don't panic. Breathe, slow and easy and-

"Might I see?"

At Erik's gentle tone, she opened her eyes and handed him the letter. She stared at her feet as he read. When he was done, he took the envelope and placed the letter inside, then set it on the small side table next to the chair, right beside the lamp.

"Your husband," he said hushedly, "will not find you here. Nadir is the only person who's ever discovered this place on his own - and only because he knows me...knows how my mind works. You are well hidden from Claude. And the police. If the police knew this house existed, I'd have been arrested years ago. As for Nadir, he will come. He has not abandoned you. Perhaps he won't come today, tomorrow, or even next week, but he will come."

Christine nodded, but still had to wipe some tears away. Erik sighed and turned momentarily to the open door.

"Are you hungry, Christine? I don't think you've had anything but tea today."

She was, actually, now that it was mentioned. "A bit."

"Then come."

"You're hungry as well?"

"No."

"Then-"

"Come, Christine. What do you want to eat?"

She told him that she'd be fine with anything, and would, in fact, be willing to wait until he was hungry too. Erik wouldn't hear it, mainly because he apparently wasn't going to be hungry for hours and his stomach was a poor baseline for when to take meals. He ate once a day, and like a bird - he'd make an exception now, for the sake of showing her where everything was in the kitchen. He asked her if she'd like a jambon-beurre for lunch, and she responded that this sounded delicious.

They made the food, ate it - rather, she ate while he picked, placing bits in his mouth rather than biting, probably to avoid messing the mask - and they cleaned up. He then taught her how to make tea with his samovar, rather than with a teapot. He had both, but preferred the former, an urn-like thing that needed to be lit instead of placed on a stove to boil water. She'd seen it this morning, but hadn't known what it was.

"I keep the teapot only because Nadir hates using this - I've told him that regular use means higher comfortability, but the man is stuck in his ways."

"You keep a teapot just for Nadir's sake?"

"Of course. I am an accommodating host. All of my houseguests say so. Really, you should have seen the toast I was given at the party last week."

Christine glanced at him dubiously, but said nothing.

As he guided her step by step in lighting the samovar, every word encouraging and every correction clement, she was so eased by his patience, so engrossed in the task, that she forgot why she'd been crying. She forgot where she was and why.

She forgot that she wasn't supposed to be here at all.

Chapter Text

When the king awoke to discover that his wife was not in their bed, he searched the palace grounds. Not finding her there, he had his guards search the entire kingdom.

For days, they looked high and low. He was puzzled; he simply couldn't see how it would be this difficult to find her. After all, she was a simple girl, not crafty. And she was quite literally golden. How could anyone overlook her?

So he searched.

And searched.

And the more time that passed without a single trace of her, the angrier he became.

Whoever had taken his wife-

He'd have their head.

- - - - - - - - - -

After Erik and Christine had their tea, made by her using the samovar, he took her to the sitting room and picked out a book for her to read. A light text, one translated from English, to take her mind off of anything dark.

"I know of Jane Austen. I've read Pride and Prejudice." She examined the title. "Sense and Sensibility." Her eyes met his. "Do you like her writing?"

He ran a finger over a bound collection of Poe stories, these in their original language. "It's not my taste, but not exactly horrible. Jules picked that out before he understood what I like to read. It's...definitely something to pass the time."

"Not very fond of romance?" she asked, absentmindedly turning the novel over in her hands. She opened it to the first page.

Erik stared at her, keeping his bitter laugh inside. My, what a loaded question. He cleared his throat and tapped the Poe book with a long forefinger. "I merely prefer stories that I can relate to."

And, he wanted to add but refrained, stories that didn't bring up feelings of resentment and isolation. Even when he saw romantic operas, he willed his focus to the music and not the story.

"Thank you, Erik," she said, settling onto the couch. "I love to read. I haven't been able to in a while. Claude..." She shook her head, shoulders pulling forward. "Well, never mind."

"Claude? What, did he eat your books like some deranged goat?"

"Burned them." She wouldn't meet his eyes. "As punishment for saying I'd leave."

The anger that bubbled in Erik made him turn without saying another word. He left her in the sitting room with the book, and after he cooled his boiling rage at the destruction of precious literature, he wondered if the story he'd chosen would turn out to be the wrong decision. After all, she'd only just escaped a nightmarish love story of her own. Perhaps reading about a courtship so soon would be a poor idea. But she was an adult. If the text turned out to be too much, she could make the decision for herself to put it down.

He kept the door to his music room open this time as he wrote his composition, humming the tunes. He likely didn't even need to do that - he could hear the music in his mind. He wouldn't play it with Christine in the house. It was his magnum opus; he called it Don Juan Triumphant. It was a melodic autobiography - a reflection of his soul, mind, and heart. All of his emotions over the entire half-century of his life: pain, rage, fear, grief, desire, loneliness. Humor, too, if one counted the title. He was certainly no Don Juan, and he'd never truly been triumphant. He'd had wealth and power and knowledge enough for a dozen men...but what he truly wanted, he'd not once come close to.

Love was a fruit forever out of his reach.

The hours wore on. Erik had been concerned, in the moment he agreed to take her in, that he'd quickly tire of the presence of another person in his home. That she'd become an annoyance and a burden. It was still early, but he was quite surprised to find that he wasn't irked at all. In fact, he rather liked the responsibility. The company. Nadir, on the other hand...

Much as he secretly cared for the Daroga, his constant chastisement was enough to make Erik seriously consider "accidentally" dropping him in the middle of the lake and rowing away.

Stop scaring the stagehands, Erik.

The managers of the Palais Garnier do not appreciate extortion, Erik.

Please refrain from murder, Erik.

And on and on.

Maybe if the man simply let him enjoy his hobbies, he'd be inclined to look forward to his visits more than he did. No one likes a nag, after all.

Erik looked to the open door. More than once, he wondered if Christine would appear there, hoping to read in here with him. Not that he...desired that. Just - curious. Just a passing thought.

He did think that he wanted a change of environment, though. Perhaps he'd read. Perhaps he'd do so in the sitting room.

Purely coincidental that Christine was there.

He put down his pen and rose from the seat, heading to the hall. Once in the sitting room, he saw that she was about halfway through the novel. She looked up at his approach.

"Mind if I join you in literary escapades?"

Her eyebrow quirked at his word choice, but said softly, "It's your home, Erik. I don't have a place to mind."

"Of course you do. But thank you." He picked up Poe and settled into his armchair. She still sat on the far end of the couch. Her eyes lingered on him a moment before she looked down.

A small bloom of warmth began inside of him at the sight - that she so casually enjoyed a book in his home. Erik nearly scoffed at his own thoughts. How...domestic of him. He reminded himself to keep an emotional distance. Be kind, but form no attachment.

"Erik," she said, and closed the novel over her thumb to keep her place, "feel free not to answer, but - why, exactly, do you live underground?"

"The same reason I wear the mask."

She bit her lower lip. "You didn't want to answer that this morning."

"And I still don't."

His voice had unintentionally darkened. A touch of red colored her cheeks. She nodded. Submissively. Afraid to press further.

Well, that wouldn't do.

He sighed. "I prefer to keep hidden. Let's keep it at that, yes?"

"Yes," she whispered. Still that fear remained.

He had an idea for how to pull her out, without spontaneously bursting into song like some princess in an opera, and wondered if he should take the gamble. Unsure if it would intrigue her or push her further into terror. But...well, she already knew he was a killer, and yet it hadn't deterred her from lunching with him, so this would likely not be an issue, either. At the very least, it would get her mind moving in a different direction. A distraction. Something interesting to think about.

"Do you know," he said, closing his book too, "that a phantom haunts the theatre above?"

Surprise at the change in topic made her blink, and she shook her head.

"It's true. He's a very greedy and particular ghost. He must have understanding of music, as he regularly leaves notes to critique the opera performances. He must also be quite rich, as he requests twenty thousand francs a month from the managers. They say the ghost was a secret partner to Garnier, and being secret, was never paid for his contribution to the theatre's design; that's why he demands the money."

She leaned forward slightly, likely without meaning to, enraptured. "Do the managers pay it?"

"Oh yes. They do. Terrible misfortune befalls the performances if they do not. Angering the Phantom is bad luck."

"Has anyone ever seen the ghost?"

He hesitated. "Once."

She cocked her head. "What does he look like?"

"He wears a mask, Christine - though a stagehand happened to catch him without it."

Only a moment passed before understanding, sudden and bright as a firecracker, came over her face. Brows shot up. Lips parted. "Does the ghost live underground? Below the Opera House?"

Erik smiled. He got up. "The evil Phantom of the Opera should start supper, if his guest is feeling peckish."

He wasn't sure if it was genuine concern for her hunger, or the worry that he'd made a mistake and told too much that made a knot form in his stomach, but he didn't wait for her reply as he walked toward the kitchen. He'd cook for a while. Let her chew on the knowledge of his secret self.

Only when he made it to the entryway did Christine speak: "You're not evil."

He stopped, back to her. "You don't know me, Christine." She didn't know the extent of the hatred in his heart, the darkness in his mind.

Her voice was that of a mouse. "I know enough."

Chapter Text

The following morning, Erik awoke quite early - likely before the sun had risen above the horizon. Often, he woke up this soon in the day - or, speaking to another perspective, this late at night - due to a nightmare. Not this time.

No, Erik dreamed a pleasant dream. As is the nature of those nighttime hallucinations, he could not recall any concrete details. Only emotions and flashes of images, blurry and confused, like remembering them through a haze of hashish. He recalled a feeling of peace. Relief. Seeing a lovely smile. Blue eyes looking into his own, not a trace of fear or uncertainty.

As he dressed upon waking, he frowned. He was no fool. He knew whose eyes those were. And he knew he had better quit these imaginings. Christine had left her husband, but she was still married to him. And he...well, he was the Phantom of the Opera! The Angel of Death. The Living Corpse. He was not the sort to cuckold another man - it was laughable. Not even in his wildest fantasies could he see that happening, truly. One had to be dashing for that.

No. Lust would certainly do him no good.

The clock in the sitting room informed him that it was approaching three in the morning. He picked up Poe - he'd debated finishing the Tolstoy novel, but that was a bit too dry to keep his full attention at the moment - and wrote a quick note for Christine, should she wake looking for him. Part of him wondered if he was flattering himself, thinking she'd fret after his absence. But then he remembered that she had already sought him out for comfort, had kept her own bedroom door open two nights in a row to make herself feel less alone because she felt nearer to him. So he left the note in plain view in the sitting room, on the coffee table.

He wanted to read in his box. And, besides, his salary had been due last night. He needed to collect it. He closed the door to his house and set off across the lake.

At the surface, the theatre was dark. Only a single light was lit, a wall oil lamp in his box. The ghost light, the superstitious stagehands and ballerinas called it. A way to appease the ghost. Keep him happy.

A kind, reverent gesture. One he appreciated. But what truly made him happy was the wad of francs under the front leftmost seat. Erik sat, placing his own lantern and book down next to him. He licked his thumb and counted the money, ensuring that he was neither under- nor overpaid. Underpaid was a problem for obvious reasons. And overpaid? Well, he was a fair ghost, even to the incompetent managers. An extortionist he was, a cheat he was not.

After all, he thought as he stared in the direction of the rafters where he'd ended that rapist Buquet's life, he had morals. Standards. Not many. But some.

Once he determined that the amount was correct, he settled in to read. Four hours he spent analyzing Poe's works. His favorite, The Masque of the Red Death, he read twice. So much to unpack with that one. He could spend all day merely breaking down each stanza and not grow bored. Perhaps he'd show up to one of those frivolous masquerades the theatre hosted, dressed as the titular character.

Why, he wouldn't even have to wear a mask! He'd be the only one with a bare face, for a change.

Only when the ladies who upkept the theatre in the morning began walking in through the doors, laughing and talking, did he collect his items and travel through the hidden door in his box and back down to the lake. To his home.

Once back at the house, he heard the sound of silver or metal or perhaps china clanging from the direction of the kitchen. He went to his bedroom, put the money away, placed the book back in the sitting room, and joined Christine.

She was using the samovar, to his mild surprise. She was dressed, hair tied up with a blue ribbon, looking much better rested this morning.

"Feeling more comfortable?" he asked, nodding to the samovar.

She'd heard him coming, judging by her lack of shock at his voice. Christine turned in his direction. She offered a smile. The same one he'd seen in his dream. Smaller. Not quite as vibrant - it didn't meet her eyes - but...

The fearsome Opera Ghost swallowed, brow twitching.

"Yes," she said quietly. "I'm more comfortable."

- - - - - - - - -

Claude had prayed last night. And he prayed the moment he was awake.

He prayed for God to make him a better man. He prayed a promise that, once she was found, he'd contain his anger and fear - he'd keep his hands gentle.

He meant it. He hoped he meant it. He wanted to mean it.

Please let her return.

He'd be good.

He'd try.

He wanted to believe that she just needed a day or two to cool herself, to break from him, before returning. That Nadir was right, and she'd be back. But this worry, this pain that she really had abandoned him the way his father had, then mother, then aunt - Christ above, he couldn't bear it. It was eating him alive, choking him, blinding him. He wanted to think she'd come back, but he couldn't see why she would.

She loved him. She said she did. She'd return. She'd realize that it wasn't him who'd hurt her. She'd remember his words, his explanation that it was his fear of her leaving that made him act the way he did. His feelings of inadequacy. His worry that she'd realize she was too good for him. That was why. It was fear. It wasn't him. It was his fear.

She wouldn't do this - reassure him that she'd never leave, and then leave anyway.

Would she?

Please, let her return.

He'd be good, he prayed.

He'd be good. He'd be good. He'd try. He'd try.

Chapter Text

The dragon had not always been a monster.

Once, he'd been a prince.

But his mother, who'd never wanted a child and hated him upon his birth, spoke a magical incantation that cursed him. His father had died before his birth, and so could not save him from this fate.

Within days, the babe grew scales. Sharp teeth. Claws. No one would go near him. The dragon prince grew up lonely and fearful and angry. Only the gilded castle walls gave him any semblance of kindness - they sheltered him. Only the gilded plates and goblets and cutlery soothed him - they offered him sustenance.

He outlived his mother and all of their servants. He outlived the kingdom itself. He was left only with his gold. It was cold and hard, but it never ran from him.

The more gold he hoarded, the more he felt his heart grow smaller. Gold was his past - it was the first color he'd seen. It was in his mother's hair. It lined the crib he'd cried alone in for hours. It had been everywhere. So though the gold was familiar, it was also a reminder of the cruelty and hatred he'd faced.

To heal from his childhood wounds, he would need to get rid of the gold. To let go. Immersing himself in it felt wonderful as he did it, but left a hole of grief in the aftermath for the memories they brought.

But what else could he do?

The gold was all he had.

It was all he had ever had.

- - - - - - - - - -

Yesterday morning, before she'd listened to Erik play and sing, Christine had been far too ill at ease to settle down with a book. Now, she felt the very faintest shadow of a friendship forming between them, which meant that her feeling of safety had increased. This, in turn, meant that nothing was giving her pause while she collected about five books from his collection to place on her bedside table.

In fact, the books helped. They meant that she couldn't be alone with her thoughts. And with Claude lingering constantly in the back of her mind, she truly could not be alone with her thoughts.

"You're certain I can take so many to the guestroom?" she asked.

"I'm certain," he said, stacking the books for her.

"I truly just...I like seeing what books I'm going to read next. It makes me eager to get to them. And I'll put them back in their place when I'm done. I'll be extremely careful."

"I believe you, my dear." There was a note of amusement in his tone as he eyed her.

She swallowed. Why did she feel like she was some sort of naughty child? She wasn't doing anything wrong, yet she felt guilt for asking for more than was necessary - even while he allowed it. "You're absolutely sure that I can borrow them all-"

"Yes. Now stop asking before I change my mind." But it was a gentle threat, a smirk behind it.

She breathed a laugh. "Yes. All right. Sorry."

"I normally wouldn't allow this," he said, and picked up the books to carry them for her. She started at the gentility of the gesture. "I'm rather protective of my books. But you handled Austen's novel with care. I can see you're a reader. Readers, I think, can be trusted with books." He paused, frowning. "Besides, I saw the pain on your face when you mentioned the burning of your own novels."

She looked down, nodding. "It was difficult to watch."

His eyes darkened. "So I seriously doubt you'll harm mine."

That niggling guilt began again. "What if I do accidentally-"

"Christine, are you trying to dissuade me?"

She blew out a breath and made herself shut up.

Twenty minutes later, she was organizing the stack, trying to decide which to read next. When she at last decided, she took a Hugo novel back out to the sitting room. It was about a misshapen bell-ringer of Notre Dame. She'd read it before, and had watched it wither in flames in the fireplace of the apartment she shared with Claude. She was happy she could hold it in her hands again.

"You want to leave, Christine, after I bought you all these books?" her husband had screamed, pulling each text, one by one, off the shelves and onto the floor. They landed with a thud each time, some falling open pages first. Christine watched, knees shaking, in the corner of the room. "I bought them because I love you, but clearly you no longer feel the same! If you hate me so much, then you must hate them too, since they're a gift from me!"

"I don't hate you," she'd sobbed. "I just...I need...time away. Just for...a little while. You never...let me see Nadir. I want...I miss him!"

He heard none of it. "These books will burn, then, Christine. We will both watch while they turn to ash!"

She forced the memory from her mind. Just a few steps and she could get lost in another world. Christine quickened her step, willing her heart to slow. But the image of her husband, raging at the idea of her leaving, had felt so real. Tangible. Like she was there again.

The sitting room came into view, and with it, Erik in his armchair. She recalled the way he'd hesitated before stepping fully into the guestroom with the books, only relaxing when he saw that she'd covered the vanity mirror as he'd requested. Christine wondered why he was so averse to that very ordinary mirror. She wondered if it had anything to do with the mask.

"Before I forget, Christine," he said as she entered, turning a page of his book, "Jules is coming tonight with supplies for me. So, if there is anything else you need or want, be sure to make a list for when he comes. He'll purchase them and bring them back next week - or tomorrow, depending on the urgency."

She remembered the last thing he'd brought for her. "What about a letter for Nadir?"

"From you to him?"

"Yes."

He shrugged and closed the book. "All right. I will get you paper."

But she didn't want to focus on that at the moment. Thinking of Nadir's absence was almost as painful as thinking of Claude's presence. "It's all right. I want to read right now. Besides, I need to think of what I will say."

She at last went to the couch, noticing Ayesha sleeping on the pillow by the feet of Erik's chair. A light snore sounded from her. When Christine sat, though, Ayesha's eyes opened into slits. She rose, stretched and yawned, and then trotted to the couch as well. She curled up on the opposite side of Christine.

Erik stared at his pet and gave a small grunt of surprise. "My dear, it seems you have stolen my cat."

Christine watched while the animal closed her eyes once more. "Hardly. I can't reach her from here, so it's not me she wants. She likely just desired a change and thought the couch was a good idea when I sat down." She turned to Erik. "How long have you had her?"

"Eleven years. Since she was a kitten. I found her a year after I moved down here."

"You've lived here for twelve years?"

He looked around him, like he was marveling at the place he'd called home so long. "Yes."

"But the Paris Opera is only six years old."

"I am aware. I was building this house while the theatre was still in construction. With help from builders, of course, though I doubt they truly understood what they were building. Garnier didn't mind - I told him to consider the house my payment. So when the architect himself batted not a single eye, the builders didn't either. I think they assumed it was something for the theatre, though they couldn't quite figure out what."

She nodded, but kept her mouth closed - any question that was currently on her tongue would only lead to the topic of why he'd built it, and she knew she'd get no answers for that. He'd made that clear.

Instead, she asked after a few moments, "Does Ayesha have a ghostly persona, too?"

He laughed. Again, she was struck by the beauty of the sound. "No. Not unless she has one but neglected to tell me."

She smiled. "May I ask what you do as the Phantom?"

"Besides collect my salary?"

"Besides that."

"Ensure that the rehearsals run smoothly. Haven't I already told you this?"

"Yes. Sorry." She ducked her head, hoping he wouldn't be upset at having to repeat himself. "I wasn't sure if there was more."

"Well." He set the book aside. His eyes twinkled slightly, like he was pleased, not annoyed, at her curiosity. Her head lifted again. "I suppose something I do - though this is more of a perk than a job responsibility - is watch the opera themselves. I have my own box. Box Five. It is always kept empty for me."

"Don't people see you in the box?"

He grinned. "No. I'm quite invisible."

"How?"

"A two-way mirror and false back wall to the box. Box Five is the smallest one, and the only one with a six foot hallway leading to its door; but there's empty space inside the wall of the hallway - save for a chair for me, facing the mirror."

"A two-way mirror," she repeated, trying to envision it.

He nodded. "The stagehands say it's there because the ghost needs it to view the operas - which is true, but not for the superstitious reasons they think. In reality, I sit behind the wall, watching through the mirror - a regular window on my side."

"That's...genius, actually."

"Oh, yes." Not a hint of humility in his voice.

"Hm." She pictured the stage, lit by multicolored lights. All those singers and dancers working together to tell a cohesive, beautiful story. "I haven't seen an opera in years, and only once. Nadir took me when I was sixteen."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I did."

He studied her face for a while, then asked, "Would you like to see another?"

Chapter Text

Nadir was surprised that Christine wrote back to him, though he really shouldn't have been. He suspected that months of unreturned notes and letters made seeing the page, written in her handwriting and clearly in her voice, an unexpected but pleasant thing.

He'd opened the letter last night, the moment Jules handed it to him, and read:

-----
Dear guardian,

I cannot say that I am not deeply sad and disappointed that you are unable to visit me. I miss you terribly. But you were right - I feel that I can trust Erik. He is kinder than I expected.

It frightens me to know that Claude is searching for me so fervently, but truly, I didn't expect anything less. Why else would I have asked you to hide me in the dead of night?

Please, please stay safe. I am all right here. That you do not come to harm or trouble is what I care about.

All of my love,

Your Starlight
-----

He'd known she would be disappointed, but after reading the letter she'd written, he felt that emotion tenfold. He wanted very badly to see his ward, hold her close, and tell her again that all would be fine.

But not yet. He knew it wasn't possible yet. Still, that didn't make the ache any less painful, as real as the soreness of his bad knees.

He read the letter again this morning, his gratitude toward Erik growing with every second that ticked by. As he sipped at his coffee, looking at the gentle curve of Christine's written words, a knock sounded at the door.

He sighed. Again while he was enjoying a cup of coffee. He folded the letter and put it in his pocket. It could have been Jules, but it was more like Claude, coming to inspect his apartment or question him a second time. He'd not be taking any chances - Christine's husband was sure to know Nadir's pet name for her as well as her handwriting, assuming the words 'Dear guardian' did not give away the letter's author straightaway.

Nadir went to his door. He opened it.

And started.

It was not Claude.

It wasn't Jules, either.

Two dark-haired men stood on his doorstep, both dressed in shades of brown and black, wearing hats. One of them smiled. "Good morning. Is this the residence of Nadir Khan?"

"It is," he answered slowly, looking between the men. "And I am him."

"Excellent. How are you, M. Khan?"

"Fine. And yourself?"

"Just grand. Thank you for asking. Now, please allow me to introduce myself. I am Detective Autin, and this is my partner, Detective Naquin. We are with the Paris Police Prefecture."

It took everything in Nadir to remember he had to feign confusion, because all he felt was dread. He'd known this was coming, but had not expected the police to take up the case so quickly. Normally, he thought, they waited at least a few days before agreeing that a person was missing and taking on a case.

Granted, he himself had retired twenty years ago from any police work, taking the wealth he'd amassed as chief of police of Tehran. to come to France where he hoped to find Erik (but not finding him for another fifteen years). He'd always given it time before declaring someone missing when he worked, but perhaps it worked differently in Paris.

"Good to meet you," Nadir said. "Is everything all right?"

"We merely have a few questions for you. Might we come in?"

Nadir offered a nervous laugh - at that, he didn't have to pretend. "Am I in trouble, detectives?"

"Not as of yet," Autin answered genially, "though that does largely depend on your answers."

"Of course." Nadir made way for them. They tipped their hats as they entered. "Any coffee?" he asked. "I just made a pot."

"Coffee would be lovely," answered Naquin. "Thank you."

As they settled themselves on his couch, he went to the kitchen and poured two more cups. He forced every anxiety from his mind, willing himself to enter the idea that he'd not seen Christine in months. That her appearing at his door - then taking her to Erik - had been nothing but a fading dream, not worth mentioning. He would pretend that he'd imagined his meeting with Jules and that there was no letter in his pocket.

He left the kitchen and handed them each a cup, then sat in the armchair perpendicular to them.

"No coffee for yourself, M. Khan?"

"I had a cup already. Any more and I'll be sure to get the jitters."

Autin laughed. Naquin merely took out his notebook, a small leather thing, from the inside pocket of his jacket.

"M. Khan," said Autin, "we were informed that Christine Porcher was your ward before she married her husband Claude. Is that correct?"

"Yes. It is." He watched as Naquin took notes.

"Are you aware that she is missing?"

Nadir stared, thoughts galloping through his head.

"M. Khan?"

"Her husband did come to me the day before yesterday to tell me that Christine hadn't come home - or that she was gone. I assured him that she was likely just out and would return. Has she not come back?"

The detectives glanced at one another, and then Autin said, "According to M. Porcher, he came to you four days ago."

Nadir's eyes narrowed fractionally. "How long did he say she's been missing?"

"As of today, it would be five days. Why? Do you have information to contradict that?"

Naquin waited, pen ready.

Nadir put his hands up. "I can only tell you what I know, and that is that he came to me two days ago, not four, saying that Christine was not home when he awoke." And the bastard likely lied about the number of days to up the urgency.

Autin nodded. "I see." Naquin scribbled furiously. "Tell me, when was the last time you had contact with Claude Porcher? Outside of the encounter in question, of course."

Nadir blew out a breath. "Months ago. Probably eight or nine. Though - allow me to correct myself. I would often stop by between then and now to see if I could visit and he did answer the door. The answer was always no - we shared no more than a few words each time."

"And Christine?"

"The same. However, while I would at least see Claude's face every few weeks at his door, Christine never appeared."

"Thank you." He waited while Naquin wrote. "Why do you believe Porcher came to you looking for his wife?"

"I believe because I was her guardian."

"So you and she were close?"

"Yes. She was like the daughter I was never blessed with. Still is."

"And why has her husband said no repeatedly to allowing you to see her as of late?"

"I don't know." His first lie. He wanted to appear as ignorant, and therefore as innocent, as possible. "All he ever said was that she was unavailable."

Autin paused again while Naquin turned the page. "So can I make the presumption, M. Khan, that you've missed your ward?"

"You can."

"Enough to take drastic measures to see her?"

There was a short stretch of silence as Nadir understood what the detective was implying. A cold feeling washed over him. "No, Detective Autin, not enough to take drastic measures."

Autin smiled disarmingly, and the rest of the questions were innocent enough.

How long has he been in Paris?

How did he come to be her guardian?

How did he feel when she married her husband?

And so on.

The detectives thanked him for the answers and the coffee when they were done, assuring him that he was in no legal trouble at this time.

But as Nadir shut the door, he knew his fear had been realized.

He was officially a suspect in her disappearance.

He would have to be careful.

Chapter Text

The wizard knelt before the king, as was expected of anyone summoned to the throne room. The king glared down at him from his seat, fury like a blaze of white-hot fire in his eyes. The space was completely silent, the half-dozen guards posted on each side standing at attention. Red and gold tapestries hung between the tall windows, and each clear window displayed a stained glass animal in the center. The ones closest to the king showed a lion and lioness. From where the sun was shining, the lion was projected in a life-like size onto the white marble floor.

"Your Majesty," said the wizard, finally breaking the quietness, "why have you called me to the palace?"

"Silence." The king's hands clenched into fists. "You will not speak unless spoken to."

The wizard nodded, closed his mouth, and waited. He wanted to point out that he'd been kneeling for a good three minutes in silence, and that perhaps the king had lost track of time and merely needed prompting. He kept his tongue in check.

"My queen is missing. She has vanished, seemingly into thin air."

The wizard held his breath.

"I have searched for days. Weeks. I can't find a single trace of her. The only explanation I have left is magic."

"This sounds distressing, Your Majesty."

"Your glib tone is not appreciated."

"I had not intended to be glib."

"Your Majesty," the king reminded darkly.

The wizard bowed his head further. "Your Majesty."

"Where is my queen?" The king stood.

"If I knew, I would tell you, Your Majesty."

"Tell me where."

"I do not know, Your Majesty. I do not involve myself in political affairs, so I would have no reason to keep this secret."

"You lie!" His voice echoed in the long chamber, and his nostrils flared. The guards did not so much as flinch. The wizard didn't either. "But my advisors tell me your ancient age has made you stubborn. I think I will get no information from you today. I'd imprison you, but I know you can use your magic to escape. Executing you will do no good. So I will offer you a reward: gold." He removed a white glove from his hand. "Tell me where my queen is, and I will give you all the gold you could desire."

"I appreciate the kind offer, Your Majesty," said the wizard, daring to meet the king's gaze, "but I must say again - I do not know where she is."

- - - - - - - - - -

At the Palais Garnier, Sunday performances were matinées.

And Christine, at the mere thought of seeing one, was feeling real joy for the first time in months. She felt hope, even if it was for something as fleeting and trivial as an opera. She'd felt that emotion - hope - for the first several months of her marriage. She'd been hopeful that Claude would actually change. She'd been hopeful that, perhaps, she'd have a baby, and that the presence of a child would soften Claude's terrible anger. Neither ever came to pass. That hope had been replaced by its antithesis: hopelessness.

Nothing, she'd thought, would ever change.

She certainly never thought she'd be attending an opera with the theatre's very ghost, rather than walking on eggshells around her husband, on a weekend afternoon.

After Erik rowed Christine across the underground lake, he led her up to the hallways that had seemed to her like a maze of stone walls. But the path they took this time was quite straightforward. There were no right and left turns to consider.

She pointed this out to him.

"This," he answered, walking in front of her with the lantern in his hand, "is the path to the Opera, not Rue Scribe. It leads directly to Box Five."

"Your box."

"Yes. It is nearly impossible to find the Box Five entrance to my...lair." She could hear the smirk in his tone on the last word. "So I didn't bother to make this path confusing. I say 'nearly' because one person did find the entrance."

"Who?"

"Who do you think, Christine?"

"Nadir?"

"Nadir." He glanced back at her. "He found reports in the paper about a ghost haunting the theatre. While most reasonable people took this as a publicity stunt by the management, he had a strange feeling that he knew who the ghost was. I spent years with him in Persia - he knows my tricks. But you can imagine my shock when the bell rang, I made my way across the water, and there stood a man I hadn't seen in a couple of decades."

She stared at the back of his head. "You were in Persia with him?"

Erik stiffened.

"Are you from there?"

"No. I was born in a village outside of Rouen."

"Then-"

"I was brought there to be an architect for the Shah, and a magician and executioner for the Shah's mother."

Christine didn't press, though she desired to. His tone, clipped and low, very much conveyed that he didn't want to discuss further. She'd known he was an architect, and wasn't shocked to discover that he was a magician too - she thought she remembered Nadir mentioning it. And although she'd known he had killed, it seemed another thing to do so for a country under royalty's orders. It was so official. A career.

Why, though, did he appear to be so uncomfortable talking about it, if he so casually spoke of murder otherwise? Was there more to it than that?

They came upon a door, which Erik opened into a small black room, the only light shining from a square window on one side. When her eyes adjusted, she realized that the walls were not black but dark blue and painted in a flower pattern, like a field of violets at night. The window looked out to the interior of the theatre - to a box, in fact. The room, as he'd said, was behind the box's back wall. The box was empty, though the theatre was bustling. Somehow, she could easily hear the audience chatter despite there being no holes in the wall.

He noticed her puzzlement of that fact as he turned off the lantern. "There are benefits to being a magician and architect at once."

"How did you design it?" she asked, inspecting the wall on the window's side. "I can hear their voices so clearly."

He hung up the lantern on a hook in the wall. "A magician never tells, Christine."

Christine held in a sigh. Of course.

A chair was placed before the window. Christine sat. At this angle, she could see the stage perfectly. "And this really is a two-way mirror?"

"Yes." He stood beside where she sat. "No one can see in. And the box will remain empty, if the managers want a pleasant work week."

She realized quite suddenly that she had presumptuously taken the only chair. She stood up like she'd sat on a bed of nails. "Oh! I'm so sorry Erik. This must be your seat. I didn't mean..."

He laughed. "That's quite all right, my dear. I insist." He gestured to the chair, hands now covered by black gloves. "You are the guest here. The seat is yours. Didn't I tell you I am an accommodating host?"

"Are you certain?"

In the light provided by the window-mirror, she could see that he narrowed his eyes at her. "You say that quite a lot."

Did that annoy him? Would he turn cross? "I just like to be sure."

"I wouldn't tell you something if I didn't mean what I said. Are you used to being lied to?"

"No...not lied to," she answered softly. "But...your mind might change."

Her husband's mind. Claude's mind constantly changed. One moment he loved her, and the next he despised her - of course, he'd been fairly consistent in his hatred as of late.

Erik read her thoughts again. "It's a shame you've grown used to minds changing. But I'm quite confident in my choices. I'm not a weak man."

The jab at Claude wasn't lost on her. She felt a jolt of glee at his words, wanting to join in on making him small. But then guilt took over. That was her husband. And he had once been good to her - or, at least, better than he was now.

No.

No, he had been good. Not just better. Good. In the beginning, when the anger was rarer and milder, he'd done all he could to make her laugh and see her smile. It was just that horrible anger. If only she hadn't upset him all the time. She tried to be a good wife, but she just couldn't seem to stop triggering his rage. She could never figure out what she was doing wrong.

Christine shook the thought from her mind and finally sat, seeing that Erik truly was content to stand.

The music started. The singing began. She should have focused on that, but she struggled to push a specific memory from her mind - the memory of walking by the Opera House with Claude a couple of weeks after they were married, arms linked. He sang badly, pretending and succeeding to be the world's most terrible opera singer. His eyes twinkled when he saw how she couldn't stop giggling.

And then, at that memory, a terrible feeling of remorse settled in her for leaving that man behind.

Perhaps if she'd been a better wife, he would never have changed. Perhaps if she could have figured out what, exactly, she did to always anger him...

Perhaps - perhaps she could have prevented it.

Chapter Text

Christine was distracted.

It was possible she was bored - The Marriage of Figaro was sung in Italian, so it wouldn't be surprising if her mind drifted the moment she realized she couldn't understand what the characters said.

"If you need a translation - if you want help understanding what is happening," he whispered, "don't be afraid to ask."

His words pulled her quite forcefully out of her thoughts. She looked through the mirror as if just realizing the opera had started. "Do you speak Italian?"

"Yes."

Her eyes went to him, then back to the mirror. "How can you see the stage?"

"I can't, but I am familiar with the opera."

"Really, I can let you have a turn in the chair."

"That's quite all right, my dear. The lack of visuals heightens my sense of hearing. Easier to tell what needs to be improved musically and vocally. Try it sometime. Close your eyes while listening - you'll find your auditory senses have sharpened."

She did try. Then smiled and nodded, obviously finding that he was right. He usually was.

After this, Christine's attention was much more focused on the opera. When someone hit a particularly high or low note, she gave a small gasp of appreciation; or, if there was an especially dramatic scene - even not understanding the language - she leaned forward, eyes wide. Only once or twice did she need help deciphering what went on - otherwise, she apparently caught on to the plot and emotions.

Erik, as he said, focused on the sound quality. Frequently, he muttered to himself - "she is a bit flat tonight" or "the flautist needs to be fired; this is the second time he's hit the wrong note in the same damn score" - and it took a good few minutes each time before he realized Christine quietly listened and watched. He hadn't truly noticed that he'd been talking under his breath, but now he was very conscious of it.

Not wanting to disturb her enjoyment, he muttered in his head, just barely moving his lips to the thoughts.

Over all, he supposed, the opera wasn't terrible. Christine, on the other hand, seemed to think it was the most marvelous thing in the world.

"Beautiful," she said, standing from the chair as the curtain closed and the audience stirred, chatting and heading for the doors. She seemed very much at peace now. "And to think you can watch these any time you'd like."

Erik smiled while he checked the hidden door to the rest of the theatre, the one that Nadir had somehow made his way through to Erik's home. Since that moment, he kept it locked - he hadn't bothered before, not believing anyone would actually discover it. He turned to Christine, satisfied that the door remained bolted. "I'm glad you enjoyed it, though it was certainly not their best performance. They always slack a bit on Sunday afternoons."

"If that was considered not their best, then they must be very talented indeed."

"You are entirely too kind to them."

"Better too kind than the alternative."

His gaze slid to hers for only a moment, then he went to the lantern on the wall and picked it up. "I suppose that's true, Christine."

These, Erik realized with sudden clarity as he led her through the hidden hallway, were not mere empty words from her. She meant them. So few had been kind to him in his life, so he kept himself wrapped in shadowy armor and ready to battle.

He didn't feel this way with Nadir. Had at first, but that hadn't lasted more than a week before the former chief of police's fussiness and concern endeared him - why, the man actually cared about Erik's safety while in the Persian court. The shock of it, really.

And, he knew now, he did not feel that need for arms and armor with Christine.

When she stepped into the boat on the lake, he tried not to stare at her face - and this caused him to look down, where he noticed the curve of her waist, how the blue dress she wore complemented her figure in the way it hugged her middle then widened with her hips, flowing out in a waterfall of cloth to the floor - and he immediately looked away. Away, where he should have looked in the first place. These thoughts were entirely indecent and likely undesired by her. No woman wanted a monster staring in her direction.

"That was truly lovely, Erik," she said as he stepped in as well. She beamed back at him - actually happy for the first time since she'd come here. It awakened a foreign and unwelcome emotion in his chest. He cleared his throat and picked up the oar, when she asked, "I don't suppose we can do that again?"

We.

They'd seen the opera - at least, listened to it - together, but still that word almost made him drop the oar for the effect it had on him.

We.

- - - - - - - - - -

That evening, Jules rang the doorbell. He came with only one item: a letter, apparently from her guardian.

"Does Nadir ever send you letters?" Christine asked, sitting on the couch and opening the envelope.

"Never, actually." Erik settled into the armchair, drumming his fingers on his spindly leg. "But that's perfectly fine. I receive more post than you could imagine, from admirers all over France. Must be the fact that I'm always so cheerful. I'm such a pleasure to know."

Her lips had quirked upward, but then turned down in a frown when she pulled out the letter and read. "He's all right. But the police...he will have to be more careful. More so than before, at least."

He stood and went to her. He held out a hand to take the letter from her. Looking at his black glove, she hesitated. Then, to his utter shock, she tenderly took his fingers and met his stare.

"You haven't had to be as kind as you are," she said slowly, breathily. "Thank you." Her hand was replaced by the letter before she could feel that his fingers had begun to tremble.

Erik turned quite quickly so that she couldn't see his eyes. He had no idea what they looked like exactly, but, doubtless, there was emotion there. Something strong. Uncontrolled. No one had ever held his hand before. No one. The closest he'd come was a gentle pat by the man who'd taught him to build architectural masterpieces - and even that had overwhelmed him at the time. For someone to grip his fingers in theirs-

He could not focus on the letter.

Erik had said that what he felt for Christine wasn't affection. But maybe...maybe there was no harm in considering her a friend. Maybe that was what she needed - a friend. The moment she no longer needed that was the moment he'd wipe his hands of her. But for now, he could lean into affection. If he thought about it like this, like his friendship was a kindness to her rather than something he wanted, it was a much easier thing to plant in his mind.

It was much easier to allow affection to take root.

Chapter Text

"You are miserable."

The gilded girl spun where she stood at the window. The dragon watched her, his body filling the enormous doorway to her bedroom.

"I'm...sorry?" she stammered.

"You are deeply unhappy," he said. It was spoken like a fact, void of any sentiment. A cold, unfeeling observation.

The girl stared at him. What could she say? Of course she was unhappy. What else was she meant to feel?

"Do you miss your husband? The king?"

"No," she whispered.

"Then why be miserable? You are away from him now."

She looked at her feet.

"You are..." he said slowly, "afraid of me."

The girl didn't respond immediately. "Not anymore."

"Anymore."

"yes."

"What changed?" Again, that frigid curiosity.

"You've not harmed me."

"That's all?"

"That's all."

"Then why do you remain so unhappy?" His eyes narrowed in confusion.

"Because my husband was cruel."

"He turned you golden."

"He did."

"Why does this upset you? Gold is lovely."

"I don't want to be golden. I never wanted this...skin."

"But you are beautiful." He gazed at her in puzzlement, apparently trying to understand how anyone could be saddened by their flesh changing in this way - to quite literally become one with lovely, lovely gold. Unable to figure it out, he gave a huff through his nostrils and backed out of the room.

- - - - - - - - - -

Claude Porcher was a sweet, darling little boy.

That was what everyone always said. The man who sold meats at the corner butchershop. The ladies at church. The young couple who lived in the apartment above. They all beheld his round, little face, his rosy cheeks, eyes that twinkled green like a field of fairies, and that yellow hair that simply would not lay flat.

Claude Porcher was simply the sweetest little darling of a boy.

A pity, really, that none of the adults closest to him seemed to think so. And Claude couldn't place why. Lord knew he would have fixed it if he could. He never said no. He always did as he was asked. He kept his room tidy, kept his person clean. He offered to help with the cooking and the shopping. It didn't matter.

First, his father walked out, and his mother - who moved them in with her sister, his aunt, who's just married - blamed Claude. She said that the boy was a disappointment, and that if he'd been smarter or less prone to crying spells, his father might have stayed - he was a disappointment. It wasn't long after this that she disappeared too. No note. Nothing.

The boy cried himself to sleep every night. His heart was tattered, and only the return of his Maman and Papa could put the scraps back together. But they never came to tuck him in when the sky turned dark.

What had he done?

What had he done wrong?

And, just when his aunt seemed to be a semblance of safety and consistency, just as Claude started to feel loved and comfortable, his uncle convinced her to take the boy to his grandparents. For good. To make room for a child of their own.

His grandmother and grandfather tried their best to bond with him. To show him that he was still cared for.

But Claude's heart was now missing a vital piece.

It was beyond repair, and would never work properly again.

- - - - - - - - - -

Samuel Autin, if asked, would have said that missing wife cases were normally about as interesting as the men whose wives had disappeared. Which wasn't very. The majority of the time, the women weren't in any actual danger, unless one counted endangering their marriages by crawling into the bed of a richer or more charming or more handsome man.

Detective Autin almost felt sorry for them, returning them to their husbands. Almost. Had he not joined the police force, he might have trusted the sanctity of marriage enough to partake in the tradition. But he'd seen enough to keep his distance and remain a bachelor, to keep away from the prospect of unfaithfulness - or worse. The cruelest crimes, he'd come to learn, often occurred within the confines of the home, by and against two people who were meant to cherish and protect one another.

No, thank you, he decided. He was content with his fireplace, brandy, and fox terrier named Fou (the pup lived up to his name) to keep him warm.

As much as these missing wife cases bored him, they nonetheless put food on the table. So he would press on. Money was money.

Nadir Khan, Christine Porcher's former guardian, was difficult to read. He seemed intelligent, prepared - a challenging yet irritating thing for any policeman questioning a suspect. And though it would have been easy to pin this on a father-figure who'd gone mad with loneliness after losing his ward to marriage, he had no evidence. There were more people to question, besides.

The family who lived downstairs from the Porcher residence had nothing substantial to offer, but there was a widow that lived on the top floor, a lady in her sunset years named Valerius. Her late husband had been a respected professor at the University of Paris, teaching music theory.

He doubted she had much to contribute to the investigation.

"Naquin, my friend," said Autin, ascending the stairs, "are we truly going to bother this lady on a Sunday evening with this? I mean, what are the chances that she knows anything at all? Can't we pester old biddies come Monday?"

"A biddy, eh?" Naquin snorted, eyeing him. "Haven't even met her, and you're calling her a crone?"

"Oh, no. Crone? That's much too harsh. But is she inadvertently ruining my weekend with this nonsense? Why, yes. Yes, she is. So - a biddy, it is."

"She's not done a single thing to your weekend."

"Correction - she absolutely has. She had the audacity to live upstairs from a man whose wife ran off with...oh, I don't know. A strapping young farmhand in the country, perhaps. Now, shut your yapping trap, Naquin. We are right outside the lovely biddy's door, for God's sake."

Autin cleared his throat and winked at his partner, before raising a fist and knocking three times in firm, steady succession.

The elegant woman who answered the door made Autin eat his words. This was no biddy. No crone. Not with her high, arching eyebrows, silky silver hair pulled into a tight, blemishless updo, and thin, severe lips.

"May I help you?" Her voice was deep and lovely.

Autin removed his hat, and so did Naquin.

"Mme. Valerius, may I presume?" asked Autin.

"You may. What is the intrusion? I was in the middle of a very good book, so this had better be for an equally good, if not better, reason."

Autin decided he liked her. "Apologies, Madame. We are detectives with the Paris Police Prefecture."

She inhaled softly. "I had a feeling, actually." Her head tilted lightly. "Is this about the wife beater downstairs desperately searching for his missing 'property'?"

Autin and Naquin shared a look.

"Well," she said, "don't tell me you don't know. Surely you are aware that he puts his hands not-so-gently on her."

"Claude Porcher?" clarified Autin.

"Yes."

"Beats his wife. Christine Porcher."

"This really is news to you, then."

Naquin turned his notebook, which he'd take out in a flash, to a fresh page.

"Care to elaborate, Mme. Valerius?" asked Autin with a professional smile.

She smiled back. Just barely. "I'd be glad to. Come in, gentlemen. I'll tell you what I've seen. And heard."

Chapter Text

Cleaning dishes had always been oddly comforting to Erik. He wasn't sure why, though he suspected it was the combination of clean, soapy water washing away food residue to make the silver or china or porcelain spotless once more - much in the way he wished he could scrub the ugliness from his own face.

Or perhaps it was a mindless task, and though Erik loved exercising his mind, giving it a rest was also nice every so often.

Christine busied herself by humming a tune while she dried what he washed from their breakfast of cheese, tomato, and onion omelettes and tea. He was once again struck by the domesticity of this situation, but he couldn't say he didn't enjoy it. He was also struck by how lovely her voice was. It had a subtle beauty, a high quality canvas that had great potential to become a work of art if given the right brushstrokes.

He quickly picked up the tune and matched it. She stopped humming and merely listened to him, ceasing her drying as well. Only when he finished seconds later did she resume with the rag.

"That was a pretty little song," he said. "Did you make it up?"

She nodded. "Write it down, then, before you forget. Assuming you can read music, of course."

"I can," she said, but didn't mention whether she'd agree to write it down. "My father taught me." Christine kept her eyes firmly on the dishes.

A small silence between them.

"A violinist, eh?" he said then, continuing on a pan. He wasn't so concerned with displaying his hands around her anymore. She didn't seem to mind how they looked.

"Hm," was her only soft reply in confirmation.

"Was he good?"

"Very."

"I already like the man."

Small lines appeared in the corners of her eyes as she smiled. "He was very good friends with Nadir."

"Well, everyone has their faults."

She laughed. "You say that like you aren't friends with him too."

"I have faults as well," he said. "Many, in fact."

Christine finally met his eyes. "You know, Nadir speaks highly of you."

He'd seen the letters, so he knew. And he'd swatted away the sentimentality that then buzzed around his chest. "Then, it seems, we all have some terrible taste in friends."

She looked back down. "Better than terrible taste in husbands."

Erik almost dropped the plate he was washing, unsure whether to throw it down in sudden anger at Claude - an anger he'd forgotten for the time being - or laugh that she'd called his character out. He did neither.

In the ensuing quiet, he watched as her face reddened. "I'm sorry."

"For?"

"That was unkind. I...shouldn't have." She glanced up at him momentarily. "He was good to me sometimes."

Erik's mood turned dark. "You mean when he wasn't crushing the blood vessels beneath your skin?"

Her flush actually deepened. "Let's talk about something else.

He agreed; and, he suspected, so did the presently-unbroken plate in his hand. He turned the topic back to something familiar and safe.

"Did your father ever teach you an instrument? Violin?"

"No." It came out like a sigh, like she was relieved at the conversation's direction.

"What about your voice? Any vocal training?"

"I had a little, before he died, but I refused to go after my father passed. I was waiting for..." She put down the drying rag, throat bobbing lightly. "Just before he left, he promised to send me the Angel of Music once he was in Heaven. I think...perhaps...he forgot." A long pause. "Perhaps I should have continued my vocal lessons. Perhaps. Perhaps my father didn't forget, but the Angel only visits those whos voices were befitting of Heaven to start with."

Her eyes had grown so sad. "Do you wish you still had lessons?"

"Often, yes. But Claude would never allow it. I regret deciding so late that I want them. Claude, you see, doesn't - didn't - like me being around anyone without him.

And look what that got him.

Look where she was now.

"Well, Claude's not here, and I am more than capable of giving you lessons."

Hm.

It finally happened. It had to happen sometime, but good gracious, it came without warning.

Erik really had finally lost his mind.

Singing lessons were a rather personal thing. It was, quite literally, training a part of the body. It required trust. Patience. Time. Lots of it.

Actually, he immediately expected her to say no for that very reason. Once again, however, she surprised him. She was developing a habit of doing that.

She blinked. Smiled. Nodded. All three motions small and barely noticeable. "That sounds lovely, Erik."

- - - - - - - - - -

Christine's letter was tucked safely away in an old Quran on the top shelf of Nadir's mahogany bookcase. Protected. Hidden. Just like her - not to be found.

He'd seriously considered burning them in the fireplace, but his old heart couldn't bear the idea. He simply could not bring himself to do it.

And he wanted so badly to see her.

At just around midday, Nadir left his apartment with a coat on to shield from the chilly Autumn breeze. He trekked the twenty or thirty minutes to the theatre. Went to Rue Scribe. Locked eyes on the gate.

And kept walking.

He wasn't a fool. He wouldn't compromise their safety.

But walking by the gate was painful. Not going in hurt. Looking at that gate, though, was the closest he would get to seeing his ward.

He held his head high, hands in his coat pocket - wishing that coat could protect against the ache in his chest - and continued walking. He'd wander Paris. Visit a bookshop, perhaps. Go to the Bois. Anything, really, to occupy his time.

He'd be content with the letters.

The letters were safe.

Chapter Text

One cloudless, black, starry night, the gilded girl could not seem to find sleep. There wasn't anything particularly wrong - anymore wrong than what was already unfortunate circumstances, at least - and she found herself strangely soothed by watching the world at night live on. The trees of the endless, constantly changing forest, branches gently swaying in the breeze. The sound of an owl somewhere in the distance. The sound of crickets.

And the sound of something different, new. It was like a heavy heartbeat on the wind, like the forest had blood coursing through its roots. But - no. It came from above. She searched the sky...and there. Suddenly. She found him.

The dragon. A black void against the stars. A beast made of shadow. She sat up, watching.

He looked, she realized, beautiful. A terrifying sort of graceful, powerful beauty.

Somehow, flight made the monster lovely.

He soared past, unaware she was staring.

And then he was gone from sight. But that heartbeat remained. This time, it wasn't just the sound of the black wings pounding through the air, but her own golden heart pumping in her chest.

- - - - - - - - - -

The sound of the church bells ringing still sang in Claude's ears even now, hours after his marriage to Christine. Christine Porcher, now. Not Daaé. Porcher. His. She was his now.

And he would never, ever let her go. He would keep her close until death parted them

She was so, so beautiful. Beautiful and kind. Her smile lit sunshine and fireworks in his cracked heart, spreading light and wonder through the fragments until that light became the glue, the wonder setting it, until it seemed his heart was whole once more, not to be broken again.

He did as he'd read in adventure novels, in the scenes where the hero won the woman he'd sought - he carried his new wife from the front door of the apartment they now shared and into his bed - the marriage bed. He thrilled when he heard her giggle and sigh into his neck at the romantic boldness. But in that exhale, that little laugh, he also heard another emotion - fear. Not a chilled fear, but a subtle one, an anxiety. She was nervous.

As, of course, he expected a virginal bride to be.

As she lay under him, he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Don't be worried, my love. I will be gentle."

That eased her significantly. Her every muscle seemed to relax. A smile touched her lips and she nodded.

He was true to his word - he was supremely gentle that night. He knew what he was doing - a group of his school friends had taken him to a brothel twice when he was nineteen, and then he'd gone on his own three times more after that. She felt a small bit of pain at first, something his friends warned him would happen when taking a girl's maidenhood, but it subsided quickly and made way for pleasure.

He took his time. Sweet, soft, slow time.

She, clearly, appreciated it. Her smiles and sighs and gasps told him so.

And when he finished - when she'd finished, too - he held her close. He wouldn't let go.

Wouldn't even let go when she claimed she was thirsty. When she said she needed water. The idea of her leaving his arms even for a moment struck a sudden, unexplainable terror. It wouldn't be so terrifying a concept in the morning, but right after they'd made love, in the wee hours of the morning, he couldn't bear the thought.

At first, she'd thought he was only joking, playing, when he gripped her arm as she sat up.

"Claude," she giggled. "Really, I'm just thirsty. I just want water."

"Then I will come with you."

"It's quite all right, my love. I can go myself."

"Do you not want me to come with you?"

In the darkness, he could see how her playful expression faltered at the sharp edge in his voice. The edge was dulled by his attempt at playfulness, too, but it was there.

"No, of course I want...that's not what I meant."

"Then let's go get you some water."

She opened her mouth slightly, concern making a crease between her brows, but then closed her lips and nodded. After a few minutes, she calmed again, apparently coming to the conclusion that he was simply extremely attached due to the night they'd just shared - that emotions were merely high and that she should be grateful she had a husband who loved her so much.

That was the truth, after all.

All he felt for her was love. He'd follow her anywhere, no matter what.

- - - - - - - - - -

When the knock came on Claude's door, and he saw that it was Autin and Naquin - the detectives who had assured him that they'd find his wife - his first instinct had been to smile.

But at the severity on their faces, his smile quickly faded.

"Detectives," he greeted, "what's wrong?"

"Are you in the middle of anything, M. Porcher?" said Autin.

"Only making supper," he answered, "why?"

"Are you free for some questioning?"

Naquin pulled out his notebook.

"I suppose." Claude felt a pit start to form in his stomach. "Haven't you already questioned me, though?"

"New information arose."

"I see." Though he very much feared whatever was about to come to light - was it Christine? Was she hurt? - he nonetheless allowed them inside. He led them to the kitchen table, but warily looked at the soup pot that bubbled, unsure if he should check it while they were here, or if he should be content with overcooked potatoes and beef.

Autin read his mind. "By all means, continue cooking." He sat with Naquin, lifting his shirttails as his did. He then waved a reassuring hand, a small smile finally on his face. "Don't let your pot overflow on our account."

Grateful, Claude nodded and stirred the soup.

"I saw, M. Porcher, a bookcase when I first walked into your home. Quite empty, but I saw no dust collecting there. Where have your books gone?"

A memory flashed of Christine's burning books. He himself wasn't much of a reader. So. No more books.

"Ah. Donated," he said.

"Really? Where?"

"Some - charity." Claude waved a hand, keeping his face turned away from them. He wanted badly to change the subject. "Care for any soup, gentlemen?"

"No, thank you. We ate. M. Porcher, if I could make a suggestion, I would recommend Shakespeare."

"In English?"

"You can buy French translations. I prefer his tragedies. They are so full of court intrigue and doomed romances. One of my favorites, actually, is Othello. Do you know it?"

"I've heard it. But I don't know the details." Claude relaxed. Small talk. It was just small talk.

"Oh, it's truly terrible what happens. You see, he believes his wife has betrayed him - adultery, you know - and murders her."

A coldness struck Claude and he turned to them sharply, looking into Autin's face. The man stared intently at him. This wasn't small talk. Not even close.

"That's interesting, M. Autin," said Claude, holding onto nonchalance as best he could.

"It is." He cocked his head. "What do you think of that, M. Porcher?"

"Of Shakespeare? As I said-"

"Of killing one's wife."

Claude swallowed. He turned back to his pot and, appetite completely gone, moved it from the heat. "That's rather morbid."

"Morbidity is part of my job. I hope you'll forgive me that."

"Of course."

"Many do sympathize with Othello. They consider him a tortured soul."

"Hm."

"Are you a tortured soul, M. Porcher?"

Claude's hands tingled. There was a long silence between them. "Please get to your point, M. Autin."

"My point?"

"Please, M. Autin, I beseech you - I've never been much for dancing."

A smile, tight-lipped. He nodded. "Very well. Did you kill your wife, Claude Porcher?"

"No."

"Do you beat her?"

He paused.

Like a fox recognizing that its prey has tripped and faltered, Autin pounced. At least, that's how it seemed to Claude. The detective leaned forward. "I recommend, M. Porcher, being honest in answering my questions. Any holes in your stories - any discovered lies - and you will, in fact, become suspect number one."

Claude heard a ringing in his ears.

"Again, M. Porcher," said Autin, and Naquin held his pen at the ready. "Do you beat your wife?"

He was nearly breathless. "It is not illegal to."

"Unfortunately, you are correct. But that was not my question. I will ask once more: Do you beat your wife?"

Chapter Text

Of course, Claude had no choice but to say yes. Yes. He did beat his wife.

Technically speaking, he did have a choice - but the detective was right. Lying about this would plant suspicion in their minds. But now he was stuck at an impossible crossroads. Lie, and paint himself as mistrustful, or tell the truth and reveal the reason Christine might have left.

But the detectives, now, didn't just think that Christine left.

No, instead, they prodded continuously at the idea that he'd, in fact, killed her himself. There was no arrest made. There was no declaration that they'd solved the case. But the questions they asked - did he ever cause Christine to bleed? Did he ever beat her into unconsciousness? Were there ever any tools or weapons to assist with the beatings? - made the already tight knot in his core untie itself and constrict him instead.

It had been a trap, through and through.

He was to be the prime suspect no matter what he said, because as Autin told him, they had new information. Someone had informed them that he beat his wife.

That panic rose in him again.

And that panic always, without fail, turned to rage.

Minutes after the detectives left - and only once he'd waited at the window and watched them exit the building and walk down the street - he left his apartment and stormed up the stairs to Mme. Valerius's witch lair. Her crow's nest. Her snake den. Once there, he pounded on the door.

"Mme. Valerius!" he called, voice low with emotion. "Open this door!"

The door did open, and there she stood before him, looking up into his face. Not a trace of fear or concern lined her features, despite the vein ready to pop in Claude's temple. He was sure that fury emanated from his eyes, but she either didn't notice or didn't care. It angered him further, either way.

"It's rather late for a visit, M. Porcher," she said.

"You told the detectives that I beat my wife," he hissed. "Didn't you?"

"Well, I find that lying to the police is bad practice."

"You don't know-"

"And what did you tell them? When they asked. Did you tell them that you don't beat her? Or were you wise and told the truth?"

His lips snapped shut momentarily, then he bared his teeth and spoke through them: "That is none of your business. None of this is your business."

"Any woman under the thumb of a cruel man is my business."

He was incredulous. He wanted to throttle her here and now. "We have spoken, perhaps, four times in the years I've lived here! What on God's Earth gave you the impression that I was cruel? I'm starting to wonder if this isn't some...delusion you've made up. Some fantasy, a story, to keep your mind busy and entertained while you live here alone in your old age."

"I know the signs of a battered woman." To his surprise, she stepped forward. To his even greater surprise, he stepped back. "My daughter was married to a man like you. Charming. Handsome. But they'd come to visit after their marriage - and I noticed things. Strange things. A bruise on her wrist that she attributed to her own clumsiness - she fell on it, she said. A flinch or side-glance toward her husband if she accidentally interrupted him. Defending him and his anger when we went out for lunch and he stormed out of the restaurant because the waiter got his order wrong. The constant, unending, heartbreaking look of sadness and fear that never really went away, like she was eroding from the inside out. She was a frog in a pot of slowly boiling water - by the time she realized the water was hot enough to kill, she had already died. And her husband - the person who was supposed to protect her from harm - had been the one who turned on the stove." Another step toward him. "I know the signs, M. Porcher. And I won't be charmed or intimidated into believing otherwise. I made that mistake already. I won't make it again."

He didn't back away this time, and before he could open up his mouth to find something, anything, to say in response, Mme. Valerius turned and walked back into her apartment.

- - - - - - - - - -

Christine stood exactly as Erik told her to. Back straight, standing against the wall of the study, heels and head touching the wall. Hands flat on her abdomen.

"This way," he explained, sitting at his piano, "your posture is correct. So long as your head touches the wall, you cannot slouch."

"What about my hands?" she asked.

"You must breathe through your diaphragm - a muscle in your stomach. Try. Breathe into your belly."

She did so. It made her middle feel full, like after a big meal, and somehow felt like she'd taken a deeper breath than when she took air into her chest. It felt unnatural, for certain, but was also...remarkably relaxing. She said so.

"This is how we breathe lying down," he explained. "That might explain the calming effect. Try breathing through your stomach for the duration of the lesson."

Christine nodded.

"Now." His long fingers pressed against a few keys, starting at a low note, going higher, then going back down. "I want to hear you sing scales - just to get a sense of where to start."

He gave an example of what he wanted, his voice matching the notes of the piano. As he did, she was transported to that place of beauty, the lovely space she'd been sent the first time she'd heard him sing. She saw his lips move. Saw him look at her. Even heard the words leave his mouth. But she didn't register what he'd said until he said her name a couple of times.

She shook her head. "Sorry? Sorry. What did you-"

His lips pursed, hiding a smile. "I said I'd like to hear you try."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." Pushing past the burning of her cheeks, she opened her mouth and copied what he'd done.

He pressed her to sing higher, then higher, then higher still, until he stopped her and determined that she was, in fact, a soprano. A soprano who needed a fair bit of oiling to do away with built-up rust, but a soprano nonetheless. He taught her that different sounds came from singing from the chest, the nose, and the head. He reminded her, repeatedly, to breathe from the stomach - the diaphragm.

The lesson, she admitted, was fun. Surprisingly so. In fact, when it ended, she nearly begged to keep going. But he said that this was enough for today, and that he had "ghosting" above to attend to.

Her face fell at his words.

Noticing her expression, he cocked his head. "What's wrong?"

"You're leaving?"

"For a few hours or so, yes."

"What..." Her face became hot again, and she clutched her stomach. "What if I need you?"

He narrowed his eyes at her, but there was a softness there. "You will be fine for a few hours, I think."

She looked down and gave a small, reluctant nod. He'd been gone before, without her, but she hadn't even realized he'd been gone until after he'd returned.

"What is...how long is a few hours, exactly? - I mean, how many hours is...a few?" She spoke in a near-whisper, not meeting his gaze.

For a terrifying moment, he didn't respond, and she wondered if she'd pushed too far and had triggered some anger in him. Often, with Claude, the most severe storms were preceded by a still and silent calm. She flinched when he rose to his feet. But he only took a step or two toward her.

"How long would you like me to be gone, Christine?" His voice was not unkind. Not impatient.

She wanted to say that she didn't want him to be gone at all, but instead said, "I am not...I don't - want to - tell you what to do."

"Oh, no one tells me what to do, my dear. I'm asking what you would prefer, not for an order."

She swallowed. "I don't know. I don't have an opinion."

"Yes, you do. But you had it beaten out of you."

She cringed.

He crossed his arms. "Let's make this easier, then. I'll give you a few options, and you can pick. Would you prefer I was gone two, three, or four hours?"

Christine finally looked up. "Will you be...angry if-"

"I will not be angry at all. Two, three, or four."

"T-two."

"Fine, then. I'll be gone two hours. You can keep time, if you'd like." He nodded to the clock on the wall. "It's eight-thirty now. If I am a second past ten-thirty, you have full permission to call me a dirty, rotten liar with yellow teeth and rancid breath. Deal?"

A smile was coaxed out of her. Erik, in fact, did not have yellow teeth or rancid breath. And, so far, he'd done nothing but tell the truth. But the promise made her feel better. "Deal."

- - - - - - - - - -

Christine decided that the best way to pass the time was to simply sleep. To pretend that he was still there and simply shut her eyes to the world and find oblivion. Which she did. She dressed into her nightclothes - generously paid for by Erik - and made a cup of mint tea that she took to bed. She kept the lamp on. Always on. She never turned it off. Sometimes she remembered that there were no windows down here. Those were the moments that she nearly asked Erik for a second lamp.

She crawled into bed, closed her eyes, and waited for sleep.

Several minutes, she waited. And then she heard the front door of the house open and close. She lifted her eyelids and stared at the wall, confused. Erik. Erik must have come back early, or perhaps he'd forgotten something.

But the voice that came from the doorway to her bedroom, the one that said, "Hello, Christine," was not Erik's.

Fear gripped her, stilling her every muscle, nearly stopping her heart altogether. Claude. That was Claude's voice.

"It's just you and me, now," he said, the sound like the hissing of a snake, the rattle of its tail. "It's just us. Forever, like we said. Or did you forget? Did you forget our vows? Perhaps living down here in this underground prison will remind you."

She closed her eyes tightly when she heard his footsteps coming around the bed.

"No windows here, remember? No way across the lake - not while Erik is gone to the world above. You're trapped down here with me." He stopped before her, right next to the lamp. She could feel him staring down at her, and she tried her best to control her breath. To make it even, like she was asleep. "Look at me," he said. "Look at me, Christine."

She did no such thing. She couldn't have moved if she wanted to - and she certainly did not.

"Look at me!" he roared, and she heard a crash from the lamp beside her - causing her to open her eyes to darkness with a terrible gasp. Complete darkness. Black air around her. A quiet stillness to match. There did not seem to be any other life in this room.

The fear inside her constricted her lungs. "Claude?" she breathed.

No response.

She could tell he wasn't there. There was no presence next to her - no sound of breath, no shifting, no general sense that someone was standing over her. And she suspected this had been a dream - how on Earth could Claude have gotten down here?

But...what if it had been real? What if, somehow, it was real?

She reached out to grip the lamp, to turn it on, but the switch did not work. It was whole, just not working. Either the light itself was no longer working, or Claude really had broken it while somehow still keeping it intact.

Perhaps he was hiding. Hiding, maybe, somewhere in the room.

Or perhaps it had been a dream, and he wasn't here at all.

But if it wasn't a dream-

Feeling a lump rise to her throat, she flung the blankets off of her and went to the door, hoping to find an exit and search for...something. She wasn't sure. Maybe a knife. Maybe to simply get to a location Erik was sure to find and help her, where she could ward Claude off long enough for Erik to get back home.

But her tiredness, her fear, muddled her mind. All four of the bedrooms she'd had - the one at her childhood home, the one at Nadir's apartment, the one she shared with her husband, and the one here - merged together to form a confusing, hazy environment. One she was trying to navigate in pure darkness.

She reached out a hand and stepped forward. A wall. A few more steps to the right. More wall. Her breath came in and out shallowly. If she'd been able to calm herself, to take the time to search for a door, she was sure she would have found one. But she could hardly move. Could hardly think. She was frozen - frozen and certain that something would pounce from the darkness and drag her to Hell, where wives who abandoned their husbands belonged.

The lump in her throat exploded, and she cried, "Please!"

No response. She wasn't sure to whom she was begging. Perhaps it was to Claude, asking him to leave her unharmed. Perhaps it was to Erik, or the Angel of Music, or God. She just wanted someone to hear. Anyone.

"Please!" she yelled again. "Please! Please!"

"Christine?"

Erik's voice, from somewhere far off. She whirled in its direction. She found a sliver of light peeking through a narrow passageway, which she recognized now as the opened door. All at once, the panic faded, and the fear that Claude was waiting faded too. It had been a dream. A dream. Only a dream.

"Erik!" Her voice broke, and she ran for the door. She opened it wide, and found him standing there in the hall, holding a candle, eyes wide.

"What's happened?"

"You're back." She wiped at her face with her nightgown's sleeve, the fabric coming away wet. "When did you get back?"

"An hour ago. I told you, I would only be gone two hours. You were sleeping when I came back."

"My lamp was off." Her words came out quickly, frantic. "It was dark."

"I didn't turn it off." He looked past her, over her shoulder, into the dark room. "It must have gone out on its own. I will look at it."

"Right now?"

"If you'd like."

She didn't move.

Neither did he. "Why did you yell?"

"I...I had a terrible dream. And it was...dark. I couldn't - think straight."

"You were frightened."

She nodded. "But I'm not. Anymore. You came."

His wide eyes became considerably gentler. "I was in my study, writing music. Using candlelight. It helps me feel drowsy. Would you like a candle to fall asleep to, and then we look at the lamp in the morning?"

"No, I don't want to go to sleep." She wrapped the silk of her gown around her middle and ring fingers. "If you'd like to go to bed, would you mind if I stayed awake and made tea? If I read? I can...sleep in the morning. When you're ready to look at the lamp."

"I wouldn't mind that at all. But why don't we stay up a while longer? Go and find a book in the study. I'll make us tea. I'll fix the lamp and then join you - until you're ready to fall asleep."

"You won't mind?"

"Not at all. The candle isn't quite working to tire me."

She gripped the cloth tightly. "What if I don't want to go to sleep tonight?"

"Then I need to catch up on my reading, anyway."

He had a very slight smile on his face. At that expression, or what she could see of it behind the mask, a warmth spread through her. The same sort of warmth she felt for Claude when he'd smiled at her for the first time. That thought, though, along with its implications - was far more than she wanted to reckon with right now.

"Mint tea, my dear?" he asked. "I saw the box of it still out; I assume you had a cup after I left? I can make you more."

"Thank you," she said, and watched as he blew the candle out and turned the wall lamp on, the light driving out any remaining monsters that Erik's presence had somehow missed. Which weren't many. Or at all. If Christine was asked, she'd have said that when she saw him, heard him, in the hall, every frightening beast in the dark had been banished.

Vanished into the nooks and crannies of the nightmare realm.

Chapter Text

Christine, as Claude quickly found out, was a reader. She devoured books like they were the most nutritious sort of food, the most delicious, and it took a great deal to tear her away from a book once she'd begun reading. He found it endearing.

But there was a part of him - the broken, cracked part - that found itself immensely jealous of those books. The first couple of weeks that they were married, she did nothing but fawn over him, and he did the same. Actually, he wanted to continue doing that, nothing but that, forever -

Christine did not feel the same. She was still affectionate, but now seemed a bit restless, asking for alone time so that she could read.

Claude felt that slithering reptile coil in his gut, the one that only awoke when he knew he was about to be abandoned again. He'd felt it when his father didn't come home from the pub, when his mother went grocery shopping but never returned with the vegetables and bread she went looking for. When his aunt dropped him off at his grandparents' and lied that she'd come right.

When she longingly looked at her books when he wanted to go for an evening stroll with her, the animal that lived deep inside him rattled its tail. An uneasiness, a deep-seated fear, shook his bones and sped the blood in his veins. But he reined it in.

As best he could.

"Read until...nine," he suggested, looking at the clock. It was seven now. "And then we can spend the rest of the night together."

She perked right up at that. "Absolutely!" She kissed his cheek and practically flew to the couch where her book waited for her.

He thought she could have been a little less enthusiastic to be rid of him for a couple of hours and instead enjoy the company of fictional people. Fictional men, no doubt. He felt a vein throb in his neck and pushed the idea firmly from his head.

Claude picked up a book as well - well, not so much a book as the newspaper...he didn't have the patience for an entire novel. He looked up every few minutes to see the time. The more he looked, though, the slower the hands of the clock moved. And the slower they moved, the more irritable he became.

So irritable, in fact, that by eight-thirty, he was thoroughly of the opinion that Christine owed him an apology.

Eight-forty. He struggled to control his breath.

Eight-fifty. He glared in her directions.

Nine o'clock. Christine ignored the time completely. In fact, she had the gall to smile as she read.

Nine-oh-one. A giggle escaped her, her eyes transfixed on the page.

Claude slammed the paper down on the table. "You think this is funny, then?"

Christine's eyes sprang upward, alarm widening them. Her smile faded slowly. "Sorry?"

"Do you find it hilarious to string my patience along?"

She blinked several times, bewildered. "I - don't understand."

"It's a minute past nine, Christine, and you continue to read."

She looked at the clock, then back to him. Every muscle except her eyes was frozen. "Oh."

"Yes. Oh. If this is how it is going to be, with you making promises you cannot keep, then our marriage will need some rather large adjustments."

Her lips parted. "Claude...I didn't..."

"Didn't think? No, clearly not."

"I didn't know. The time."

"Didn't care to know, more like. Didn't care that I've been waiting - or care enough to keep time as I was."

She closed her book slowly. Her shoulders were raised, slightly caved, and she swallowed. "I...am sorry. It won't happen again. I promise."

He stood, his anger not abated. "I think I need some air."

As he left the apartment, he couldn't help himself: He slammed the door shut with a sickening, loud sound - one that drew a gasp from her lips. The sound of that fear from her awakened something in him. Not the reptile this time - no. A poison. A deadly, lovely, powerful poison. He held onto its bottle, memorized its shape, sipped from it, and put it away.

On the walk, he realized quickly what an overreaction he'd had.

Thank God he hadn't actually hurt her. He couldn't imagine hurting her. What would he say to Nadir, if he did? Goodness, they'd have to cut the man out of their lives to avoid Christine's guardian's anger.

No. Claude would simply be better next time.

He nodded his head to himself as he walked home.

Next time, he'd be better.

- - - - - - - - - -

Christine, in Erik's parlor, felt the stirrings of sleep quite often. Her eyelids would droop. She'd yawn. The words on the page would become fuzzy shapes, indiscernible. And though she had a belly full of tea, though Erik had indeed fixed the lamp, the idea of going back to that room filled her with dread.

And, as the night wore on, the more she couldn't focus on her book. Her mind wandered to dark, private places, and soon she chided herself for her fears.

Her husband had been good to her, she realized with a pang of terrible regret. Despite the pain he dealt, if she thought hard enough on it, it had always been for her own good. Keeping her from Nadir - that had been to save their marriage, for Nadir would have intervened. The bruises and scars - that had been no more than a schoolteacher's discipline, a lash of a ruler, for a misbehaving child. Or wife, rather.

Perhaps she'd overreacted. Perhaps Claude was right, and she was simply prone to taking matters more seriously than they actually were.

The terror she'd been feeling, death at his hands, was for something he wouldn't actually do. It was her own consciousness punishing her. He was angry now, that was all - that was why he kept her locked up. She tried to leave him. Any husband would react badly to that. It was bound to pass. If she only just coped for a few more months, things would return to normal.

Or.

Perhaps she was right to leave. Perhaps she shouldn't doubt herself so. Perhaps made the correct decision.

Had she?

Exhausted by her own mind, Christine put the book in her lap and rested her head for a moment on her arm, which was lying on the armrest. She closed her eyes, just to clear her thoughts.

And awoke - hours later, by the tell of the clock, much less tired than she'd been before. She smelled coffee. Heard low humming from the direction of the kitchen. And across her shoulders and down to her lap, was a black wool blanket keeping her warm.

Chapter Text

The following night, when the gilded girl sat down at the dinner table, she stared at the dragon. She and the beast were the only signs that life had existed in this portion of the castle - in any portion of the castle. The windows of the grand dining hall were cracked, and the chandelier that hung low above the table was missing several pieces of glass, but that didn't stop the dragon from blowing fiery breath onto its candles to give it light. It cast strange shadows against the dark stone wall, flickering gray shapes that spoke of ghosts long since dead.

The girl cut into the meal of venison and blueberries - both of which were found in the forest. The dragon had taken to eating the rest of the deer.

She was shocked to find that the meat was cooked perfectly.

As always, the only sound was that of silverware clinking and the crunch of his teeth on animal bone.

She cleared her throat. "I saw you."

Red eyes looked up to hers. She didn't meet them. "Saw me?"

"Flying."

"Ah. Yes. Did I wake you?"

She glanced up for only a moment, saw him staring, and looked quickly back down. "No. I was already awake."

"Do you often have trouble sleeping?"

"Yes."

"I see." A pause. "I like to fly when I can't sleep. Whenever anything is troubling me, actually. It's what keeps me at ease."

That startled her. She stared at him. She'd never once considered that this monster was in need of being kept at ease, when he made her so uneasy.

"That sounds nice." She didn't realize how true her words were until she said them. Yes, she thought, flying did sound nice. Leaving her worry and sadness and anger behind for weightlessness under the stars, wind in her golden strands.

"I can take you."

She was sure she hadn't heard correctly. "Sorry?"

"I can take you. On my back. Flying. If it so pleases you."

- - - - - - - - - -

Several days after the incident with the lamp, Christine had decided to go back to sleeping in her bedroom - under a single condition. A light was kept on in the hallway. And a second lamp was placed in the room.

"Technically speaking," Erik had said, "that is two conditions." But when Christine didn't smile, Erik put his palms up in placation. "Of course, Christine. We can make that happen."

She seemed to want to spend as little time in there as possible, however, despite these accommodations. She was only in that room from the time she went to sleep to the time she woke up, hurrying in her dressing and freshening.

More than once, he would come out to the kitchen a few hours past midnight to get some water. Dressed, as he was never able to go back to bed once awake. He would find her with a cup of tea, dark circles under her eyes, fully dressed as well. Her hands would be wrapped tightly around the cup, and she would be staring into the liquid.

"Are you all right?" he would ask.

"Yes," she would say, but her voice would be frayed at the edges.

Tonight was no different.

"Yes," she answered his question, and as always, he knew that to be a lie.

He didn't press that issue. "Would you care for company?"

"Yes," she replied, relief in her tone.

So he poured himself a cup from the samovar - the use of which Christine had become skilled in - and sat with her. It was nearing five in the morning.

He brought the cup to his mouth, aware that the bottom of the mask - the part that covered his upper lip - was wet from the tea. He watched her all the while, and then brought a handkerchief to his face to dry the mask. "Was it...?"

"A dream." Her hands tightened around the cup. "Yes. If you'd believe it, they are becoming worse."

"I believe it."

"Do you have nightmares too?"

"They're a common occurrence, yes. Common enough that a dreamless night is a reprieve."

Her wide eyes looked past him, to nothing in particular, and he could see the fear in her eyes. Fear that her own terrible dreams would never go away.

"Was I in the wrong?" she said then, suddenly.

His eyes narrowed. "Wrong...for?"

A pause, a flush of her cheeks. "Leaving." She cleared her throat. "Leaving Claude?"

Erik's free hand curled into a fist. "And why, pray tell, would that be wrong?" His voice was full of smoke and embers. "He was hurting you. He failed his husbandly duty to protect you from harm, so I'd say it's fair that you shirked your wifely duty of loyalty."

The flush deepened. She shook her head. "Never mind."

He wanted to say more, to protest whatever she was currently feeling, but he could see the discomfort, the anxiety, in the lines above her brow, her frown, the way her shoulders slumped forward. He pushed his words down, however difficult it was.

"My father said that pain always tempers to wisdom," she said then. "I didn't know what he meant then, but now I do. And I hope he's right."

"He's right," replied Erik, and was about to offer a vague example of this from his own life, when Ayesha chose that moment to jump onto the kitchen table. She meowed loudly in his face, to which he scratched her behind the ear for a few seconds but then pushed her gently from the table. The cat gave him an indignant glare upon landing on the floor, and scampered away to find somewhere else to be.

Ayesha needed attention a smidgen less than Christine right now.

And he had an idea.

Madness was often a symptom of staying in the same place for too long. He'd always considered himself to be a prisoner, though he'd designed his own beautiful prison cell. At least he could leave his home and enter Paris when he wanted. Christine could not even do that, or risk being seen by the police or, Heaven forbid, Claude himself. Erik himself found himself becoming stir crazy after a certain amount of time - he had no doubt she was feeling the same. Whether she realized it or not.

"You know," he said, "I have ghosting to attend to this afternoon."

A crestfallen look crossed her features. "You'll be gone for a few hours, then?"

"As will you, if you'd like."

Surprise arched her eyebrows. "Meaning?"

"Would you care to accompany me to the living world, my dear?"

- - - - - - - - - -

In the late afternoon, as he rowed Christine across the lake, Erik explained the "rules" for ghosting.

One: Remain silent.

Two: Remain unseen.

That, really, was it. At least, those were the rules Erik expected Christine to follow. The act of spooking the stagehands or leaving vaguely threatening letters for the management - that would be taken care of by Erik.

They made their way up to the theatre above, quietly, both in thought. As they passed through the hallway to Box Five, Christine broke the silence. "What if someone happened to find you down here - by chance."

Erik smirked, too confident. "Those would be some impressive odds, considering the maze that is Rue Scribe and how well hidden the door from Box Five is."

"Let's pretend for a moment, then," said Christine. "What if someone found their way down and...and decided to take up residence there too?" Despite the lightness, the casualness, of the question, there was an edge to her voice. The same edge that found its way to her tongue when she spoke of her husband.

"Then I'd have neighbors for the first time in over a decade." He turned back to her for a moment. "It won't happen. No one even knows where Rue Scribe leads. No one realizes what's hidden in Box Five."

She nodded, but bit her lip. Then, after a few moments, "I had a couple of neighbors. A family downstairs and an elderly woman upstairs. I wanted to become friends with the wife and mother who lived below us...but it never came to be. Claude was just too..." A pause. "Anyway, the woman upstairs definitely suspected something was wrong between Claude and me."

Erik waited, listening.

"She asked me every couple of weeks if I was all right...if I was all right at home, with my husband. If he was hurting me. It made me angry. Afraid. Uncomfortable. I don't really understand why, but it did. It was like...it was like she was standing there, telling me something was not right with my marriage, and I didn't like that she was doing that. Does that make sense?"

It did. Erik nodded.

"I always told her no. I always told her to leave me alone. She didn't stop, though - but the questions became rarer, though each time with more concern and urgency, like she was hoping I'd say yes. I don't know what she would have done if I'd told her the truth. I never got the chance to find out." Erik heard her swallow. "After Claude started locking me in the bedroom, I would hear her knocking on the front door when he left for work. At least, I think it was her. She always knocked four times, and...well." She let out a shaky breath. "At those times, I actually wanted her to save me, and I'd yell for her - but I think she couldn't hear me, or maybe it was just that the apartment was locked. Either way, by then it was too late. She eventually stopped knocking. And I was...trapped."

Erik's stomach roiled at the idea of that little shit locking Christine away. "You got away, though. You did. And you did it yourself."

"I know," she whispered.

Past that, Christine was quiet. The remainder of that night, in fact, she was quiet. This suited Erik well - not because he didn't want to hear her voice, but because any speech during a ghosting session was very ill advised, and went strictly against rule number one.

They were only there for an hour or two, checking on the props to ensure that the props master didn't leave anything misplaced again, or making sure that the managers indeed left Erik's salary for him. They did. Christine gawked silently at the enormous check left for him.

He had to hold back his chuckle.

At whatever expression she saw in his eyes, she smiled too.

He was glad that he'd taken her. Leaving the house like this had lifted some weight from her, a weight she likely didn't even realize was oppressing her. Still didn't realize. Or perhaps she did. Perhaps that was why she smiled so easily.

Erik checked his watch. Close to seven. If they left now, they'd meet Jules at the lake with his weekly supplies. He informed Christine as such. She agreed they should go back.

They did. And indeed, when they reached the lake, they found Jules waiting there, a basket of groceries and a lantern in his hands. Christine beamed at M. Bernard and stepped forward to take the items from him.

Only when that happened did Jules cough, then sniffle. And then cough again. It was not a dry cough, either. Upon closer inspection, Erik realized that Jules's eyes were red-rimmed and his hands were covered by white gloves, as though he was keeping his skin from touching the food he'd brought.

But he'd coughed mid-basket transfer, meaning that whatever was ailing him had likely touched Christine.

Jules looked mortified. "Beg your pardon, Christine. Terribly sorry. Do forgive me." His voice was far too nasally for Erik's liking. "I came down with a cold yesterday. Had a fever this morning, but that seems to have broken."

He paid the man a bit more than the usual fare, keeping an arm's distance away. "If you don't recover within the next few days, see a doctor."

"I believe it is just a cold, sir."

"Even still. I can't afford to lose you, M. Bernard."

Jules nodded, gave Christine an apologetic look, and turned stiffly away to head up to the surface.

Chapter Text

Erik was a murderer, extortionist, and ghost. He was a musician, magician, and architect. He was apparently also a nurse.

The cold came on quite quickly. By the following night, Christine's throat was sore. The following morning, she was inexplicably both freezing cold and terribly hot. A touch of Erik's fingers to her forehead confirmed it: she was ill, with whatever Jules had been carrying.

Erik ordered her to bed. Informed her that she was not to move from under the sheets unless she absolutely had to. Meanwhile, Erik checked on her every hour or so, but all she wanted to do was sip on honeyed tea and read her books, at least before the fever arrived.

And, to Christine's dismay, he absolutely forbade her from using her voice. Speaking while with a sore throat could ruin her instrument, he said. They had to preserve it. So, in place of speech, he gave her paper and a pen. Anytime she wanted anything, or anytime she answered his questions as to her wellbeing, she put pen to paper.

Sometimes, though, when she simply didn't feel like writing, she'd speak anyway.

In the height of her fever, she broke his no-speech rule every few minutes, voice as scratchy as if Ayesha had dragged her claws across it.

Finally, when Christine continuously asked if Erik himself was sure he wasn't feeling ill, he finally hushed her by pushing the pen into her hand, shoving the paper under her nose. "Any more out of your mouth," he chided gently, an amused spark in his eyes, "and I shall have to gag you with a wad of this paper here."

Christine, propped up against pillows, closed her eyes. Exhausted. Foggy. Irritated.

"Some tea, Christine?"

She opened her eyes and picked up the pen and wrote out, in handwriting worse than a child's: Aaaaarghhhhh

Erik read what she wrote. He nodded sagely. "You do have such a way with words, my dear."

Pen to paper, slowly scrawled: When can I use my voice again?

He looked at her. "So a no on tea, then?"

She sighed, coughed, winced, and shook her head.

"Sleep?"

She nodded.

"All right." He moved the pen and paper from her grasp and put it on the bedside table. "I will leave you to your rest."

"Light on," she reminded him hoarsely.

He turned to glare at her. "I know."

"And door open," she whispered. "Please."

He sighed and left the room, and she noted that he'd neglected to gag her, despite his promise to do so.

- - - - - - - - - -

Despite her utter exhaustion, Christine slept fitfully. She tossed and turned, waking every hour or so. At least, it felt like an hour to Christine. For all her fever-addled mind knew it could have been minutes or days.

At some point, she found that she had a guest.

The door to her bedroom creaked open an inch or two more, drawing her eyes open. But Erik was not there. A soft mew, laced with a purring trill, sounded from below.

Christine spun to her side, groaning at the ache it brought to her skin, down to her bones, and stared down. In the soft yellow lamplight, she found two icy blue eyes staring up at her, wide. When she realized Christine was watching her, she exposed her little pink tongue in another meow, and then a purr. Her paws made bread on the blue rug.

"Hmm," was the sound that came out of Christine. For all she knew, this was still a dream. In fact, it likely was. Ayesha had never seemed to like her very much. Not that she disliked her, but she'd never thought of them as friends.

Like to prove against that point, the cat chose this moment to drop to her side and expose her stomach, paws in the air. Her head was tucked into her shoulder, one ear folded under and eyes firmly placed on Christine. She held an expression like she wanted to know why Christine was not currently reaching down to pet her soft belly.

So Christine tried to do just that. Reached down as far as was comfortable and tried to touch the cat's fur. To no avail. The cat was too far out of reach. Christine's hand went limp and she let out a defeated huff. "Sorry, Ayesha," she mouthed, remembering Erik's rule. "Not tonight."

As though she understood, Ayesha rose to her feet and hopped up onto the bed. Christine righted herself, moving onto her back, staring at the cat as she made her way from the foot of the mattress and up to the pillow. Ayesha found an unoccupied section above Christine's head and began making bread right there.

"Oh," Christine breathed, and she reached up a hand to scratch behind the cat's ears. She purred, leaning into her touch. Christine's eyes closed, feeling utterly blessed.

At last, Ayesha settled, lowering her legs so that she laid, paws tucked under, above Christine's head. Her purrs were loud, yet not at all distracting or annoying. In fact, they were immensely calming, like music itself.

Much like the vibrato of the violin music that began playing several rooms over. Or perhaps that was merely in her dreams.

- - - - - - - - - -

When she awoke hours later, Ayesha was gone. But Christine felt remarkably better. She could not breathe through her nose, and the coughs that made their way out burned her already pained throat, but she no longer felt that relentless exhaustion, that ache in her muscles that brought a whimper out every time she moved. Sitting up, in fact, was little issue at all.

She had a book in her hands when Erik walked in with a tray of tea. A smile grew on her face at his presence, and her mouth opened, ready to speak - but Erik quickly shushed her with a press of his forefinger to his lips.

She frowned.

"I'll not have you speaking until you're completely healed," he said, and set the tray down on the dresser. "And then for another week after that."

Christine gaped at the back of his head as he poured tea from the silver pot into a white china teacup.

Perhaps it was a shifting under the sheets, or perhaps it was a soft huff of breath that showed her muted outrage at losing her voice for the next week or more, but Erik turned to look at her with a glimmer in his eyes. "We agreed I would teach you to sing. How can I do that if your voice is destroyed?"

Christine scrambled for the pen and paper on the bedside table. She found the paper - but not the pen. She picked up the paper, wondering if the pen was underneath it. It wasn't. So she glided her hand along the blanket, patted it down, searching for the lost writing utensil. All the while, Erik moved slowly to her side, placed the tea on the bedside table, knelt, and picked up...something off the floor. He stood and held it out for her.

She hesitated, then grabbed the pen from his hand, and moved the tip of it against the paper rapidly.

He watched her write, arms crossed, and said, "I saw Ayesha come in here several hours ago. She does like to redecorate. My guess is that she thought the pen was better suited on the floor - ah. No, Christine, I will not permit you to whisper."

She exhaled sharply and wrote again.

"Because," he answered, the faintest hint of a smile on his exposed lower lip, "it's your throat that I'm worried about. A whisper still involves your throat - yes, my dear, I'm aware a whisper doesn't involve one's vocal cords, but you may accidentally use them while whispering."

Christine scribbled out one last argument.

"Should you need me while I am not in the room," he said, "I will have a bell for you to ring. Jules is out fetching it now. He arrived an hour ago with a letter from Nadir."

She perked and wrote.

"How is Jules? He's better. Only a cough left. He is entirely remorseful for making you ill, though I'd hardly say it's his fault, though he could have tried a bit harder to cover his mouth and - oh, you mean Nadir. Of course. I will be right back with the letter."

Christine waited none too patiently, busying herself with the tea next to her. It soothed her still aching throat. Erik was back within the minute, and held the unopened letter out for her. She tore into it and read.

And she had to read it a second time.

According to Nadir, based on the questions the detectives had asked him last night, Claude was now being investigated for the possible murder of Christine - they found out his abuse, somehow. He was asked such inquiries as "How long has Christine been married to Claude?" or "Have you ever seen Claude be violent toward her?" or "Has Claude ever expressed murderous tendencies - specifically toward his wife?" Nadir answered all truthfully - he'd suspected violence, but never had proof.

He conveniently left out her escape a couple weeks ago as well as everything after.

She showed Erik the letter, who read it and laughed with glee.

She felt a sudden thrill at the idea that he was a suspect in her disappearance. An uncontrolled hope that he'd be found guilty and would be put away for years and years - possibly forever.

Just as quickly, she remembered all of the times he'd comforted her when she cried about her father, or all of the times he gave her a bracelet she'd been eyeing at a trip into town. Those times before she'd told him she wanted to leave and set that fear in him that made him hide her away and be ceaselessly cruel.

Guilt sluiced through her like icy mud in her veins.

Chapter Text

The gilded girl had no inkling of what a dragon's scales would feel like. If she'd been pressed to imagine it, she would have said that they likely felt cold and hard as metal, or perhaps slimy and brittle like a fish.

She didn't expect the dragon to be warm to the touch, to be soft but not fragile in the slightest. Solid. Coursing with life. Every curve an indication of muscle, of strength.

The girl climbed onto his long neck, as he pressed his belly and head against the cobblestone ground of the overgrown castle courtyard. Upon coming out here, she had the urge to simply stop and take in her surroundings. The moon shone down like white fairy light, and the near-jungle that grew from what must have once been the gardens seemed to be full of magical creatures as well.

"Hold on tightly," he said, voice low and soft. She obeyed, gripping mightily with her arms and legs. The dragon gradually lifted his head and body, much slower than she guessed he usually did - a gesture she found breathtakingly kind - and he informed her, "I am going to lift into the air now."

She nodded quickly. Realizing that he couldn't see her, she answered, "All right."

The dragon's wings, which had been tucked and folded into his side, spread out to form black, webbed fans. She stared wide-eyed at them, and nearly lost both her grip and breath entirely when those wings flapped and lifted him - them - into the air.

Within seconds, she was as high as the trees. Higher than them. Higher still, until they were level with the tallest towers of the castle. She gasped, looking out at the moon and stars. They now seemed like friends, floating there with them. They accompanied the girl of gold and the dragon on their journey upwards and around the decaying grounds. Except it didn't feel like this place was decaying. Not now. Now, it seemed so full of magic.

The good kind.

For the first time in months, the gilded girl smiled.

- - - - - - - - - -

Christine found it easier than she'd thought to keep her mouth closed. She had her books, which kept her occupied and, to Erik's approval, quite quiet. She had the company of an increasingly warm Ayesha. And she had Erik.

She'd come so far since the first moment she'd met him. She'd been wary of him - afraid. But over time, she'd discovered that he was a gentleman through and through. He'd not been the slightest bit mean to her - and had been impeccably polite. In fact, the rudest things he'd done were be blunt with his truthful words or call her by her first name rather than her last upon meeting her. But she suspected he'd done the latter for the same reason she suspected M. Bernard did - out of respect for the fact that she'd run away from her husband.

Besides, she herself called Erik by his Christian name as well. Mostly because he'd never given her any other name - and as badly as he had reacted to questions about his face, she hardly had the nerve to ask about his surname.

She lacked the nerve, as well, to ring that bell he'd given her.

As quickly as the illness came, it went. Only a cough remained, but Erik was stern in his conviction that her voice box should heal before she spoke again - only so that she could retain that voice. He was adamant that she ring this small silver bell, which emitted a pretty tinkling sound, to alert him that she needed him. Whenever she rang it, he was by her side like a servant prepared to take an order.

But she felt like cringing whenever she picked up the bell. It felt ridiculous and...horrible, honestly. It felt like she was stripping Erik of his dignity, despite how he insisted. He was no servant, and she had no right to treat him as such.

That horrid feeling became so strong one evening that when she found herself sitting in bed with a book and suddenly parched, rather than ring the bell, she instead elected to suffer in thirsty silence. She was certainly not going to wander the darkened, silent house by herself - no, she'd wait until morning. Only by chance did Erik check in on her before he retired to bed, and when he arrived in her doorway, she scrambled for her pen and paper and wrote her need for tea or water or, really, any liquid at all.

He stared at the written words and then lifted his eyes to hers. "And how long have you been thirsty, Christine?"

With immense hesitation, she wrote: About an hour.

She didn't want to admit that it had actually been two.

"An hour!"

Her lips pursed. She put pen to paper again.

"Oh, good Lord, don't tell me that you were content to wait until morning. I've told you to use the bell!" Then, at the way she was shrinking into her pillows at his severe tone, making herself as small as possible, his eyes softened. "I am not angry, my dear, but you do not need to be afraid to ring for me. The very fact that you are reluctant to use it makes me all the more trusting of your intentions." A small smile; he lifted his chin and stared down at her where he stood at her bedside. "Besides, I've grown rather used to your presence. I need a good excuse to visit you - Heaven knows that the fearsome Phantom of the Opera can't be admitting that he's lonely."

Christine smiled back, but then watched as his own smile splintered, eyes flashing something like fear, and then he turned quickly away and left the room, as though his own words had terrified him.

He returned with a glass of water, but didn't say a word except: "Goodnight."

- - - - - - - - - -

Really, Christine didn't think much of the books she had selected for her recovery; to her, they didn't have any particular rhyme or reason. But Erik looked at the books on her bedside table and read the titles aloud.

"Around the World in 80 Days, Journey to the Center of the Earth, and Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea," he mused, picking up the first novel he'd listed. "You seem to have borrowed my entire Jules Verne collection." His gaze went to her. "These are all adventure books - do you know that?"

She wrote on her paper: Yes. I love Verne's works!

His eyes narrowed marginally. "You must be feeling quite bored, to be wanting adventure in your stories...a bit trapped?"

There wasn't any malice or threat in his voice, but Christine's cheeks nonetheless flamed and she wrote: No, no! Not at all. I merely love Verne's writing. That's all, Erik. I promise.

For all he acknowledged what she'd written, he may as well not have read it at all. "I am making tea. Would you like any?"

She sighed and wrote: Yes, please. Much obliged.

Several days later, when her cough had been gone for at least two days and nights, Erik permitted her to finally use her voice. When she didn't immediately open her mouth to talk, though, he asked with amusement, "You are still capable of speech, aren't you?"

Christine grinned. They were sitting at the dining room table, supper finished and in scraps on plates before them. Of co-" Her voice was raspy from lack of use. She put her hand to her chest and cleared her throat. "Of course I am."

"Convincing."

"Well, I've not been able to talk for a week and a half, to be fair to me."

Erik merely smiled. He rose, picked up his plate and hers as well. "I've a surprise for you."

But rather than stay and explain the surprise, he walked toward the kitchen. Christine, curiosity piqued, stood and walked after him. "What sort of surprise?"

He didn't look at her. Kept moving. "One of the items of clothing that Jules purchased was a brown coat. Do you remember where you put it?"

She faltered, taken aback, then continued after him. "I...yes. It's tucked away in the bottom of the dresser. Why?"

"Go and put it on, while I clean these dishes."

She did stop, fully, this time. "Why will I need my coat? If we are going up to the theatre, it's not too terribly cold. I didn't need a coat last time."

"No, but it's rather chilly in the evening, in Paris, in the autumn," he glanced back at her, "outside."

Her breath caught. "Outside! But I cannot go outside! The police are searching for me-"

"Oh, ye have little faith, Christine! I wouldn't let the authorities find us. Now go and put on your coat and wait in the parlor."

Her jaw set. "But-"

"Trust me." He turned to her. "No one will see us. We will not be in a place where anyone could see us. I've had plenty of practice sticking to the shadows. I won't be slipping up now."

And there was something in his eyes that made her believe him, something in his voice too. So she nodded and went to put on her coat.

Ten minutes later, they were riding across the lake. Ten minutes after that, they were making their way into the Opera House. And then, before Christine could guess where Erik was taking her, he opened a door to a swirl of darkness and light.

The night sky, she realized. And the city. They were on a roof. After days, weeks, of living underground, it was truly a glorious sight to behold. Below them, around them, the lights of Paris twinkled like a vast, luminous mirror that reflected the stars above. Magnified them. Gave them defined shape and breathed life into their stillness.

"Are you cold?" he asked.

She was, a bit, but she hardly felt it. "No."

"Your hands are shaking."

"I'm fine." It wasn't the cold, anyway, that made her fingers tremble. Made her voice small.

He misunderstood. "I only brought you up here as a...relief to you. I'm sure you must miss the sky...fresh air. But if you'd like to return-"

"No," she breathed, and subconsciously reached for his hand. His hand, gloved, stiffened...and then shook as well at her next words: "I want to stay a while longer before we go home."

Chapter Text

He couldn't say whether it was a strange sort of morbid curiosity, or perhaps his anxieties pushing him to occupy his mind with something - anything - but Claude purchased a copy of that Shakespeare story; that play. Othello. The one the detective had mentioned.

Autin clearly felt that Claude had connections to this character, in regard to personality or motive. Best to see what, exactly, he thought of him.

Of course, after almost two weeks, the police could question and search all they wanted. No evidence existed that he'd murdered his wife.

Because he hadn't.

Thus, it seemed, suspicions reverted back to the idea that she was merely missing - the goal was finding her location. This didn't mean Autin and Naquin liked him any better. In fact, they seemed to like him worse after finding no evidence, as if they wanted to put him away for murder. Like they'd been looking forward to it.

But he hadn't murdered. He. Had. Not.

Othello had, though. And not without influence.

Another character whispered in his ear. A character of senseless evil. Iago.

So, really, it hadn't been Othello who'd harmed his wife. It had been that evil voice spouting poison. It was not really his fault at all.

These were the thoughts Claude mused over, book in his hands, sitting inside a corner café a few streets from home. There was a half-finished cup of coffee next to him on the table, his third cup this morning. This building was perhaps a quarter to capacity, and he couldn't be sure if he wished every table was filled or if he wished he was the only one here.

Just as he set the book down to pick up the coffee, he spotted a dark-skinned man enter the establishment. He would have recognized those jade eyes anywhere. Nadir.

Claude was overcome by the want - the need - to approach him. To demand whether Nadir also suspected foul play, or ask again if he was hiding Christine's location. To demand whether he, like Valerius, knew that he sometimes lost control of himself and became...physically expressive of his anger around Christine. He went so far as to stand up, ready to walk up to him.

But Nadir caught the movement.

He saw who it was.

And the man's normally kind, warm, fatherly face became cold and hard. There was a flash of warning, a lightning strike, in his eyes that foretold of a terrible storm if Claude did not leave well enough alone.

Claude looked down.

He sat down too.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Just once more," begged Christine. "Once more, and I'm sure I will get it right."

Erik smiled softly, but collected the sheet music before him. Another couple of weeks had passed since her illness, making it a full month since she had arrived at his home. And Erik was astonished to find that he'd not grown tired of her. Not in the slightest, actually. He looked forward to seeing her every morning, and felt immense disappointment whenever she went to bed.

His favorite moments continued to be their singing lessons. She enjoyed them too, and had improved immensely since she'd started. But it wasn't perfect. There were notes she still couldn't hit, despite him expertly judging those notes to be within her range.

"Once more," Erik said, "will make no difference. Rest your voice, and your mind. We shall try again tomorrow. An operatic voice takes time." Though, he admitted to himself, he appreciated her desire for perfection greatly.

"I want to get it right," she protested.

He stood from the piano bench. "It is good enough for now."

"Good enough is not good enough for me," she insisted, a gleam in her eyes, which made Erik's brows raise. "I want to be great because then...because then I'll have honored my father's wishes that the Angel has visited me." At his look of curiosity, she continued, clarifying, "Even if the Angel never did visit, getting my voice perfect will make it as if he had."

That gleam - he realized with a jolt of strange joy what it was.

Confidence.

Hope.

He couldn't help his chuckle. "And you will get there, my dear. You absolutely will. But if I'm quite honest, I am tired and would like a rest. Let's continue tomorrow morning. We'll put it out of our minds until then, and perhaps read for the remainder of the evening. Yes?"

Christine deflated, but the siren's call of a book was nothing she could argue with. "Yes. All right."

Erik led her to the parlor, and as he'd done for the past few days, he went to the fireplace to strike a fire. She'd mentioned the idea after they'd gone to the roof, that one of her favorite parts of late autumn and winter was a warm fire. So he had asked Jules to fetch fresh firewood the moment he could.

Unfortunately, tonight, for whatever odd reason, the kindling was being stubborn. Silence dawned on them as he struggled - with as much poise as he could - to light the damn wood. That silence was thwarted when he said with academic interest, "Have you ever noticed that objects seem to develop a consciousness of their own right when you need them to cooperate?"

She let out a soft, humming laugh. "Perhaps ask the kindling why it chooses to disobey? Since it has a consciousness, maybe it's gained reasoning skills as well."

Erik grinned wide, and then did a trick he played on the cast, crew, and management of the Opera quite often, but had never played on fragile, uncertain Christine. This time, though, it wasn't a trick meant to play a prank, but to amuse - he threw his voice, casting it onto the firewood in discussion:

"Oh, well, I'll tell you the reason." He gave the kindling a deep, gravelly voice - a smoker's voice. His own lips didn't so much as move. Christine emitted a squeaking gasp of surprise, the sound filling him with a gentle glee. "It's because M. Erik is a miserly old fool and is better suited to the cold, damp darkness. That's why."

He glanced up at her, to see her blue eyes shining with wonder at him. "How did you do that?"

Erik gave one last attempt to light the fire, and the wood, perhaps embarrassed at having its stubbornness called out, relented. A spark turned into a growing flame. He stood, satisfied, and turned to her. "Practice. I learned when I was a child. I was given a book on ventriloquism, and I quickly became obsessed. My mother hated it, berated her friend - a woman named Marie, the one who quite innocently gave me the book - but by the time the book was taken away, I'd already learned everything I could from it."

There was a funny, shocked expression on her face, one that would normally have irked him - an expression that said she'd just now realized he'd been a child with parents at all, that she was having difficulty imagining him that small and helpless. But the look in her eyes was so innocent that he felt no annoyance at all - no, instead he laughed. "That's right, Christine! The Opera Ghost was once in baby napkins."

The surprised look broke and she smiled shyly, but widely, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. A flutter erupted in his stomach at the fact that he'd caused that lovely grin.

"Can you do it again?"

He raised a brow behind the mask. "Wear baby napkins? An odd request, but I suppose if it pleases-"

"No!" she laughed, then said softly, almost meekly, "Make your voice...do that again."

He sat. The fire spoke in its low, rough tone, "If you insist."

"That's incredible." Delight brightened her face. "I've no idea how you're doing that."

"Glad you enjoy it," said the fire. "Nadir rather hates it. Then again, he hates anything fun." He wanted to offer the example of being scolded for hiding the managers' desks for a week, that it was "immature" and "disrupted their work schedules" or whatever other tommy-rot M. Khan had said, but he refrained. Christine might very well take her guardian's side in the matter.

"That's not true," she responded, solidifying his suspicions.

"It is," said the fire, then out of Erik's own mouth, in his clear voice, ""Oh! I can't believe I've forgotten-" He started up for the foyer. "Nadir brought you a letter last night, but you were asleep quite early so I didn't want to disturb you."

"I stayed up late the previous night reading," she admitted. "What did the letter say?"

"I never open your post without your knowledge, Christine. That would be rude, even for me." He went to the coatrack, found the coat he'd worn to the lake - a prop, really, a costume, one that helped him pretend that leaving his house was something like going outside, when really the lake was the same warm temperature as the house. He pulled the envelope out of the inside pocket and brought it back to the parlor for Christine. "Here," he said, and handed it to her.

She opened it eagerly. At first, her face was the same as it usually was when receiving letters from Nadir - hungry and longing. But as he read this particular bit of mail, her face fell. No, not fell, Erik realized. It morphed. Eyes became fearful. Pink cheeks whitened. Lips formed a straight line.

"What's wrong?" Erik sat in the armchair. "Is Nadir well?"

She nodded, then whispered, "There's..." She appeared to attempt at collecting her thoughts, swallowing. "The questions they're asking Nadir have ceased to be ones about a murder case, and instead are inquiries about where I might be. The implication being that I'm labeled 'missing' once again." When her eyes met his, they were brimming with tears. "I'm a terrible person."

"You're certainly not." His answer was automatic.

"I am." A shuddering breath. "I was hoping he'd be...that they'd convict him for..." She grimaced.

"Killing you?" he finished.

Her grimace deepened, and she nodded again rapidly. "I wanted God to trade his freedom for mine...his life for mine...deep down." Her eyes closed. "But that's wrong. He's still my-" Again, she seemed unable to finish.

Erik stared at her. "Are you upset because this means you're still trapped here, hiding from him, or are you upset that you hoped your own husband would be falsely accused of murder?"

Her breath caught. Her eyes became suddenly wild. Her small voice said, "I don't know." And then she sobbed. Shaking hands went to her eyes. "I just-" she tried, but the sobs interrupted her, needing to come out. "I just...I want...I..."

He didn't know what to do except stare at her, regretting his question, sitting in his chair with white knuckles.

"I...miss...him," she managed to force out.

"You miss him?" Erik had difficulty hiding his tone of disgust.

"I miss...who...I married." A deep sob, and then she was capable of no more speech.

It didn't matter. Erik understood. Christine was grieving the man Claude convinced her that he was.

The steel he felt in his heart warmed and softened as he knew what might make her feel better. He knew what he would try.

He rose slowly from his chair, to which she sunk a bit further into the couch. He went to the study, picked up what he'd gone in there for, and took it to the parlor. He stood before her as she cried.

And he played his violin. And he sang.

The effect on her was simultaneously immediate and gradual. At the music, her entire being loosened, became pliant, like ice turned to water. But the tears stopped slowly, the shaking abated over the course of several minutes.

Her cheeks dried.

Her quivering fingers stilled.

Her sobs turned to an occasional whimper and hiccup.

Though she had called this place home while on the roof, and though he'd repeated those words in his mind every hour, every day since, Erik doubted she'd ever be truly happy here.

It was knowing he could quell her tears while she stayed in his house that would have to be good enough for him.

Chapter Text

As it did most nights, sleep evaded the gilded girl. Too much happened in her mind for her to relax enough into slumber. Continuously, she saw in her mind's eye the king turning her skin gold. She imagined him searching the kingdom for her, scouring every forest, until he found her. It set her metal heart racing, and feeling entirely too vulnerable, too small, in a room - a castle - that was too dark and cold.

She rose from the bed and walked to the bedroom door before she truly thought over what she did. The girl padded barefoot through the castle, the stone floors freezing beneath her heels, shuddering as she went. She wasn't wandering aimlessly, though. No, she had a destination.

The dragon had informed her of where he slept: in the castle's ballroom, long since fallen into disrepair. The marble floors had cracked, the windows broken, and the painted ceiling's depictions were utterly unrecognizable.

This was what she looked upon, the moonlight shining through those broken panes of glass. She saw, too, the dragon curled, asleep among piles and piles of gold. Gold crowns, goblets, bars, and a countless display of coins. It was set to a blue hue in the light of a cloudless night.

She cleared her throat and spoke his name. He didn't stir, but his eyes opened quickly and without surprise, as though he hadn't truly been asleep at all.

"Yes, little golden one," he said. "What is wrong?"

She opened her mouth, then quickly closed it, feeling suddenly foolish for the question.

The dragon picked up his head. "What is wrong?" he asked again.

The girl swallowed her pride whole, thick and uncomfortable, and rasped out, "Can I sleep in here with you?"

He blinked at her.

She bit her lip.

The dragon looked about him, glancing at the gold surrounding the space. "I am not opposed, but I doubt it will be terribly comfortable."

"I don't care."

He regarded her a moment longer, then said, "I am warm, if you'd like to lean against me." It was said without awkwardness or pomp - it was said as a mere fact, an emotionless suggestion.

She nodded, and went to him, feeling his gaze on her as she sat and rested her back against his side. She closed her eyes, and as did he.

Neither one of them knew that, in the slumber that followed, the dragon's red eyes turned to brown, and the girl's golden ones turned to blue.

- - - - - - - - - -

There were only so many times that Nadir could pass by the gate at Rue Scribe before someone started to notice how he looked longingly toward what appeared to be, to anyone else, the entrance to the Paris sewers.

Given his race, he was already an outsider. No point in making anyone believe him of unsound mind too.

He certainly couldn't make his way into Rue Scribe's gate. The police still had eyes on him. He'd be a fool to think he was no longer a suspect just because they'd somehow discovered Claude's abuse. Perhaps Naquin and Autin disliked Christine's husband as much as Nadir did, but any policeman worth his salt was led by law and order and an impartial state of mind, not his emotions. Morals only came into play if and when they aligned with the nation's.

He'd had to get used to that very rule while in Persia. Until, of course, he'd broken it. To save Erik's life, no less.

Erik.

He'd been extremely grateful to him before, for giving his sick son a beautiful, peaceful death, rather than let him suffer any longer - not bearing to watch him die, Nadir had wept in the next room until it was over, and then for hours after.

And now he was eternally grateful again, for keeping Christine, his ward - and by Allah, of course he considered her his daughter, his child - safe.

For once, he quite agreed with Erik's decision to live underground, hidden away from the rest of the world.

The closest he could get to them, then, was in going to see an opera at the Palais Garnier. This was the most he could do without compromising his or their safety.

He sat in a center mezzanine seat. The few times he went to the Opera for pleasure, rather than for a visit to its resident ghost, he liked to sit here. It was high up so that he could see the entire stage, the entire theatre. He'd always preferred the ability to see things from all angles.

Though this time, as the actors performed, he couldn't focus on the story or singing. Instead, he found his eyes continuously wandered to Box Five, knowing it was where Erik often watched performances.

And wondering if Christine might be watching, that she might be so close.

The idea occurred to him that he could always go through the secret entrance in that box to get to his world.

But he shrank away from the thought as soon as he had it.

He was far too worried that he was watched, followed, for even that.

Chapter Text

Christine dreamed that Erik was away from the house. Ghosting, he said. Urgent business, meaning he would be gone most of the night. And, he said, she could not come.

Somehow, she felt no trepidation about being left here alone. Normally, she was filled with at least a fluttering of nerves, if not the awakenings of panic. But now, all she felt was determination.

Why stay idle here, alone with her books, when she could take the initiative to make the most of the time she had alone?

The autumn night was so beautiful - being on the roof of the theatre had reminded her of that. She wanted - needed - to see it again. To feel the chilly air on her face, hear the bustle of Paris in the evening as people enjoyed themselves under the stars.

The absolute desperation to be under those stars pulled her to her feet and out the door of the house.

Strange, Christine thought, how well-lit the lake was, seeing as she carried no light source with her. Somehow, she could see everything as though the sun shone upon the underground water. Strange, too, that the boat was still docked there, now that she thought about it. Hadn't Erik taken it to the other side in order to go to the surface?

No matter.

She stepped into the boat. Though she had no idea how to row the thing, it didn't seem to make a difference at all. The boat carried itself along the moment she wished it to.

Christine closed her eyes and sighed. To be able to see the sky tonight despite hiding from-

A knock on the wooden side of the boat, near the bottom to the left.

Her eyes flew open, but it was to pitch darkness. No lantern, she remembered with a tightening in her stomach. She hadn't brought a lantern with her.

Another knock on the boat. A tug on its side, and it rocked back and forth.

She didn't know how she knew, but she did: it was Claude. He was waiting in the water, and she was trapped here with no escape. No knowledge of how to row the boat, no way to know how far she was from the house or the other side.

A knock.

A tug, and the boat rocked.

Christine put her hands to her mouth and gave a gasping sob.

A knock. The boat rocked.

More knocks, faster and more insistent. Rocking harder and further to the side with each sway, until at last the water splashed onto the sleeve of her arm, and a cold, wet hand grabbed her wrist-

She awoke crying in her bed. She sat upright, wiping tears from her eyes. Not bearing to be alone, but utterly too terrified to leave the safety of the sheets, she called in a broken voice, "Erik?"

The lights came on moments later in the hall, and then he appeared in her doorway. Concern lined his mismatched eyes. "You called, my dear?"

She swallowed. "Were you...did I...I hope..."

"I was doing nothing important. Did you have a nightmare?"

"Yes." I'm sorry." She gripped the blankets. "I feel like a child."

A gentle smile. "Don't." He entered. "Will the violin help to put you back to sleep?"

"I don't want to go back to sleep."

"Oh? The what do you want? A book, perhaps? Though, I see that you have plenty next to you."

"No, I..." Her face heated, and she glanced down. "Can you simply...stay? For a while?"

A small moment of surprise, then warmth softened his gaze, and he regarded her tenderly before looking about the room, at the lack of chairs.

"You can sit," she said, and gestured to an empty, unruffled space at the foot of the bed, "right here. Just to talk for a few minutes or more. That's all."

He nodded, eyes firmly on hers, and sat right where she'd motioned and not an inch closer. Feet planted on the floor, waist twisted so that he faced her.

"Anything in particular you'd like to talk about?"

She shook her head.

"All right, then." He folded his hands in his lap. "As soon as you think of something, do let me know. I've nothing on my mind, either."

The short silence that followed was not uncomfortable. Actually, she found that she was quite pacified by his presence. She didn't want him to go. So pacified was she, that her mind ceased its darkened, frightened state, and she found she was calm enough to let it wander. It wandered all the way back to her girlhood, to her father, to what he would do whenever she awoke with a nightmare.

"My father used to tell me fairy tales when I was frightened," she said, smiling wistfully at the memory.

"Oh yes?" He cocked his head. "From a book?"

"Sometimes."

"Must be where your love of reading comes from, then."

"Must be." Christine looked at him, and felt a gentle heat in her stomach at the affectionate expression in his eyes. "But sometimes, he would merely...think them up. From his own head."

"A creative man."

"Very. Since he...well, since his death, I've started making up my own when I'm scared, when I am able. But it's more difficult than I'd like."

He studied her face. "And that works? The fairy tales?"

"It does. It calms me down."

"Hm." A pause, then he cleared his throat. "Well, I have one."

"Oh!" Another flush met her cheeks. "No, you don't have to go trough that trouble."

"No trouble, my dear."

She bit her lip. "Sincerely, Erik, if you don't want to do that-"

"I do. In fact, I have an excellent story, though I might not finish it tonight. I think it's incomplete and I need to think...to discover...the ending."

At the genuine look in his gaze, she smiled and nodded.

The lamplight sparkled in his eyes, and he lifted his chin, a small smile on his lips too. "Once upon a time, there lived a king who turned everything he touched to gold..."

Chapter Text

The king with the touch of gold would not give up on his search. The queen was his. She belonged to him. He would not allow her to be taken from him - and once he found her, he'd never again let her out of his sight.

The wizard, that old fool, was certainly no help. Neither were the king's guards or spies or the town criers that announced that his queen was missing. No one knew where she was.

So he at last turned to desperate measures.

The Obsidian Ravens were, like the wizard and the king, magic. But theirs was an old magic - of ancient witchcraft that manipulated the trees and streams and creatures of the forest. The witches were long gone, died or dispersed to the edges of the world, but their familiars remained. Talking black fowl that contained the intelligence of men with none of their weaknesses. They needed no sleep, no food - instead, they consumed promises. They made deals with those in need of help, and asked for something in return. Usually, something of great value, worth as much as, or sometimes more than, what the dealmaker was desperate for.

Well, thought the king as he came upon the enormous cavernous boulder in the woods, there was nothing he wanted more than his queen.

The cave was surrounded, ornamented, by little humanoid figures made of sticks and twigs, hanging from branches of the surrounding trees, whose leaves had fallen due to the forest's perpetual state of late autumn. That ancient witchcraft kept it so. The king held one such twig figure in his hand - a tribute and gift to the Obsidian Ravens, meant as entry payment. The figure was meant to be a symbol for the person entering, that one was offering themselves freely to the Ravens.

He strung the figure up with little hesitation at all, to an empty stretch of branch near the dark cave.

A screeching sound came from somewhere deep in the woods. A fox, perhaps, or some manner of monster that grew from the magic earth that knew that he'd submitted himself to these woods. He didn't know, and truthfully, he didn't care.

He entered the cave, knowing no light was to enter this space. He simply had to trust that nothing terrible waited in the darkness.

Once he was adequately shrouded in blackness, he said, with as much confidence as he could muster, "I have come to propose a deal."

"Yes, human king, we saw you approach. We did, we did." The voice that came back was grainy and dry like soot and ash. "For what do you require out services? For what, for what?"

"My queen is missing. I want you to find her."

"And what will you give us in return? In return, in return?"

"What do you require?"

"Your power," said the voice, and then a symphony of similar voices repeated, in agreement, "Your power. Your power."

And the king, proving nothing in this world could keep him from his goal, agreed.

- - - - - - - - - -

"Thank you, Erik."

He looked at Christine, whose eyes were brimming with tears.

"I...I know the story is about..." She took a shaky intake of breath. "Thank you."

"How do you feel about the king in the story?" he asked her.

Her face crumpled. "I feel...I feel that if he really loved the girl, he wouldn't have turned her to gold."

Then her face changed. An understanding, a deep one, came over her. A devastating one - one that Erik knew. That Nadir knew. Perhaps even Claude knew, deep down: her husband had never, truly, loved her. Possessed her, perhaps. Desired her, adored the idea of her - of a loving wife that looked and acted like her. But he didn't love her.

She'd loved him. But that love - that glass emotion she felt for him, with all its sharp edges that had formed from being broken over the years, its near-blinding brightness while in the increasingly rare moments of light...it broke. It shattered, like the cracked, unstable thing it really was. Into a thousand tiny pieces. He saw her shatter with it. She sobbed, choking on the shards.

And these cries were worse than anything he'd ever heard. From her mouth or otherwise. To know that everything, even those precious moments at the beginning with Claude, had been for nothing. That she'd endured months of pain for nothing.

She wailed.

He couldn't help himself. He went directly to her side and caught her in his arms. She melted into him, crying into his shoulder. He let her. Something broke in him too, but this was a different sort of breaking. A good shattering, a splitting, like clouds dispersing or dry, caked dirt chipping and falling away, allowing in a semblance of light.

Her hands gripped his shirt, and he felt tears come to his eyes too. It occurred to him that he'd never been embraced before. He tried not to think too hard about it, or he'd break down completely as well. And he wanted to be a rock at this moment, to stabilize Christine.

"My mother was much the same as Claude," he said softly, when her sobs at last turned to hiccups and his shirt was soaking wet. "Thought she was doing right, thought she was justified in her actions. She was cruel to me. Beat me. I thought for so long that she was right. It took me until I was living under the earth to decide that she wasn't."

She sniffed. "Why was she so cruel?"

He paused. "My face."

At that, she froze. Then pulled back, to his dismay. She stared at him. "You've still not told me."

"I know." A sad smile. Why, really, hide it now? It seemed a leap backwards to lean into secrets and distrust. "I'm terribly deformed, Christine."

She stared at him. "The mask. I see." A sad expression in her eyes. "Your mother should have been kinder."

"If you saw my face, you wouldn't be saying that. I am hideous."

"No."

"Pardon?"

"Your heart is beautiful. You're not hideous, no matter how you look. You make me...feel safe."

That incredible warmth overtook him. It was more than just affection, though. It was trust. The sort of trust he only ever felt for a very, very few - that she cared for him, and would remain regardless of his fault.

His hands twitched. They moved on their own.

He wanted her to know, then. Suddenly, he wanted her to see. He wanted her to prove that she meant what she said. He desperately, desperately wanted that.

Erik lifted his hands and removed his mask.

Christine took a sharp intake of breath. He knew what he looked like: a corpse's head. No nose, misshapen lips, and discolored skin. But rather than turn away, he watched her expression. A terrified look overtook her face. His stomach dropped, but at least - at least, she hadn't screamed.

No, instead, her face began to soften as she remembered that it was him. She swallowed, and lifted a single hand to rest against his cheek.

It nearly undid him entirely. No one, not a soul, had ever touched his bare cheek so gently.

"Oh, Erik," she whispered. "Oh, you're not...no. Oh..." She fell forward into him again, embracing him. Tightly.

That was it. Tears slid down his bare cheeks. He felt his entire being shake.

"If I knew your mother, I'd shake her until she saw sense," she claimed. "I'd take all she has and...and take you away as well."

He laughed. "Well, this is all her furniture in here..."

She pulled away again. "It is? Why do you have it?"

"She left it all to me. Don't ask me why - I don't know. I suspect it's because she had no one else to leave it to. She died alone."

Christine watched him, and picked up his hands. "When did you leave home?"

"I was eight. I joined a travelling fair...was an attraction there for a while. Then ran away again..."

"An attraction!"

"My face pulled in quite the crowd." He looked away at the devastation on her face. "Then I ran away again after killing my master for his cruelty, was taken in by a master stonemason who taught me all he knew of architecture. Then his daughter demanded to see my face, which caused her such a shock that she fell from a roof and died. Then-"

"Oh, Erik!"

"Then, I became an assassin for the Shah of Persia. The Shah suspected me of theft - rightly so - and tried to have me executed, but Nadir sneaked me out of the country. I came to Paris, assisted in the building of the Opera House...and here we are." He looked into her tear-stained face. "A life full of adventure. Lacking in friends, of course, but..."

Christine, without warning, leaned up and kissed his cheek. A long, lingering kiss.

It set Erik's head spinning. Shocked, he stared wide-eyed at her when she pulled away.

"I am your friend," she said shakily. "And I always will be."

She kissed his cheek again. His eyes fluttered closed.

Two kisses.

He'd asked his mother for that very thing - a couple of kisses - for his fifth birthday. He'd been denied. And he'd never been kissed since, either. Until now.

He swore he wouldn't become attached to her. He swore he wouldn't feel affection.

Oh, he was long, long past this.

Because, Erik realized, he was helplessly, mercilessly in love with Christine.

Chapter Text

Christine saw the effect that her kisses had on Erik.

She'd have been lying if she said she didn't like how his eyes softened and warmed when she pressed her lips to his sallow cheek. So, for the next week, she made it a point to kiss his cheek goodnight, every night, before bed.

Often, actually, she found herself deciding to linger just a little longer after she kissed him - she wanted to spend more time awake with him. She'd say up and read, and only when her eyelids started to droop did he kiss him once more and retire to bed.

Tonight, she realized she wasn't tired at all. She told Erik as much - that it hardly felt like eleven in the evening. Erik informed her that he felt very much the same. And so he suggested a midnight trip up to the theatre. Perhaps to visit the stage.

Christine, barely remembering that terrible dream about the boat as she looked at Erik's smiling mask-less face, agreed. They pet Ayesha goodbye for now, put on their coats - the Opera House's interior could get chilly this time of year - and Erik opened the door for her.

She beamed. "Thank you."

His returning smile was tender. "My pleasure, my dear."

And, she had to admit, it reminded her of an interaction she might have with a gentleman who was calling on her. Never mind that they'd had similar interactions for weeks. There was nothing different about the action itself. Rather, it was the emotion behind it.

Never mind, too, that she was married-

No. No, she would not think of Claude. Not while Erik was being so sweet, and she was feeling so secure.

He hooked the lantern he held onto the tip of the boat. He held out a hand to help her into the boat. She sat, facing forward, and felt the boat rock as he stepped in and picked up the oar. The boat moved forward.

There were a few seconds of silence, before Erik finally said, "Are you ever restless, Christine?"

She glanced at him over her shoulder, brow furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"I mean," he said, staring at her. He still did not have his mask on, but she knew it was in his cloak - she'd watched him put it there. "I mean, are you ever...do you feel trapped down here?"

"Oh." She shifted her body slightly to the right in order to better look at him. "It's...it's not that... I don't feel like a prisoner. And I certainly don't resent you, or hate your house. But..." She worried her lower lip, trying to find a way to say it.

"But you wish you could leave more often. You're...cooped up." The words were spoken softly and with understanding.

"Yes," she agreed, indeed feeling understood. "Yes, that's precisely it."

Another short silence between them as she listened to the water beneath the boat.

"Anytime you wish to leave the house, my dear, you needn't wait for me to suggest it." Erik smiled at her. "You only need to say so. The last thing I wish is for the house to feel like a... Well. I know you said it doesn't feel like a prison, but I'd loathe for it to become so."

Christine hugged herself, overwhelmed by the kindness and care of that. Such a simple gesture, one that most half-decent men likely would have put forth, but it was still so conscientious, so different from-

Again, she shook that thought away before it could materialize in her mind. She wouldn't think of her husband. She would not.

"Thank you, Erik," she replied softly. "I...won't hesitate to tell you, then."

Once on the other side, he assisted her out of the boat and picked up the lantern. They ascended the stars and halls until they came to the hidden room behind Box Five. But this time, he took her further. Like when he'd led her to the roof, they entered the open spaces of the theatre. He took her to what, she gathered in the dim light, was the backstage. He switched on the lights so that everything was illuminated. Then, he took her elbow and brought her to the stage itself.

No longer needing its use, Erik darkened the lantern and put it on the floor.

He stared out into the empty audience. Christine watched him as he lifted his chin, eyes going somewhere far, far from here.

"I used to perform," he said. "Every day, when I was a young man."

She looked at him a few moments longer, then brought her eyes to the vacant hundreds of seats as well. "What did you perform?"

"I sang. Performed magic - like the trick I showed you, with my voice. Making the fire speak."

"Do you miss it?" Her gaze fell on him again. "Performing?"

"No," he answered immediately, and gestured to his bare face. "They always made me remove my mask afterward."

"Made you?" Christine couldn't picture anyone making Erik do anything.

He eyed her and smirked, apparently knowing what she thought. "Either I removed it or I wasn't paid. So no, I suppose, I wasn't made to, per se. But life was generally easier with an income. Stealing was always an option, but I made much more performing than pickpocketing, even if my dignity suffered with the former. Unfortunately, once I'd obliged in showing my face for extra change just once, word spread far and wide - and what had once been a choice became a requirement."

A pit formed in her stomach at that. "And if you didn't have to reveal your face? Would you have liked performing then?"

He considered. "Perhaps." A pause. "If I looked ordinary, or if no one cared what I looked like, then perhaps I would have enjoyed it. But, then again, if either of those scenarios were true, I wouldn't have had to perform in the streets or in travelling fairs, would I?"

She looked back out to the rows of seats. An idea formed in her head.

"Well's there's no one here but me."

He raised a brow.

She grinned. "Come! Sing, like you're a real opera star! With your voice, you very well could be. There - I'll go and sit right there, front and center in the audience." She pointed. "And listen to you sing."

Erik turned to face her. "And let all these people-" He gestured to the silent chairs. "-miss out on your own voice?"

She flushed at the sudden heat in his eyes, the crackle and intense blaze in his tone, not unlike a fireplace. Inviting and bright. "My voice is hardly opera-ready," she said. The month she'd been training surely wasn't near enough time for that.

"And yet," he said lowly, pushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear, "yours is far lovelier than any I've heard on this stage."

Her core erupted into flutters.

"If I'm to sing," he continued, "I insist you sing with me."

"What will we sing?" Her voice was husky.

He grinned at the effect he clearly knew he had on her. "What about the song you've been practicing with? 'Think of Me' from Hannibal by Chalumeau."

After only a moment's hesitation, Christine agreed.

Erik started the song, and then she joined in. No one, of course, was there to hear the beautiful music that came forth, but Christine thought perhaps she preferred it that way. If for right now, her voice was meant only for him, and his voice was meant only for her.

This.

This intimate feeling of safety, this gentle emotion like a perpetual embrace, was how love was supposed to feel. That understanding came upon her like the dawn: slowly, warmly, and with beautiful grace.

She didn't love her husband - not anymore. She loved the man singing sweetly with and to her.

Her father had never sent the Angel. Maybe the Angel wasn't ever coming. Maybe there was no Angel of Music at all. There was only Erik.

And that was perfectly fine with her.

Chapter Text

If there was one place the Obsidian Ravens knew to look, it was the forest of enchanted, moving trees. The sky there was always clear and blue, a thing unfamiliar to the Ravens. Of course they'd travelled to places where the sun shone, but it was never pleasant for them. They much preferred the comfort of a cold, cloudy night - or, better yet, complete darkness within a stone cave.

The Raven chosen to venture into the forest was the most cunning of them all. He was a black shadow gliding across the pink and purple sky at dusk. Even as he watched from above, he could see how the trees moved and changed at a slow, constant rate. No mere mortal would ever be able to find their way out if they walked in - but the Raven wasn't mortal.

He was of magic.

Any being of magic could make their way through those trees. The forest was magic itself, after all. On some level, all magical beings understood one another, even if on a purely instinctual level.

The Raven searched and searched that seemingly endless forest, two days and two nights, without a single moment of rest. Then, just when frustration had started to set in, he saw it.

The castle.

A decrepit castle, seemingly hidden if one wasn't looking for it. He'd seen it before, while flying over these trees. He'd seen it hundreds of times in his life. But always in passing - going looking for and finding it was another matter.

The Raven dipped and soared down to the castle. He circled it a few times, looking for signs of life. Nothing on the outside. so he flew to all of the broken windows and peeked inside. He searched the towers, the bedrooms, the libraries and parlors and grand dining room and ballroom.

Nothing.

The sky grew dark, stars blinking high above, when the Raven was deciding to give up on this place and look elsewhere. Right as he extended his wings to fly up and away, a whoosh sounded to his right. He looked.

There was the girl of gold - the queen - smiling with joy on the back of an enormous black dragon.

The dragon's eyes sparkled a deep, rich brown, like he felt pure happiness too.

- - - - - - - - - -

His wishes were silent. They may always be silent. But Erik would pursue them anyway.

He wanted to marry Christine.

But he couldn't - not at this point in time, under the current circumstances, anyway. She was married already, and he'd promised he wouldn't kill that wretch. He wouldn't betray her trust

People, he thought, died all the time from illness and accidents. If Erik waited and hoped and begged hard enough, perhaps Porcher would simply fall dead.

It was a slim chance, but Erik had always been either supremely unlucky or unbelievably, almost otherworldly, fortunate. The dichotomy between his face and voice was evidence enough of that. It could so happen that the world flipped a coin and favored him in this.

So, he'd be ready.

Dead into the night, while Christine was fast asleep, Erik made his way into the Parisian streets for the first time in months.

As he walked, he had half a mind to figure out where Christine's husband lived and take a look at who'd harmed this beautiful, darling young woman for a year and a half - and then thought much better of it. The urge to end the man's life would be far too strong to resist.

God held Claude if he ever, somehow, found his way down to Erik's home - though, faced with the Phantom's wrath, not even the mighty Lord above could truly save him.

An autumn wind gusted by, making Erik need to hold onto his hat, and causing his cloak to billow behind him. He looked up, found the street sign, and confirmed that he was quite close now. Minutes later, and he was finally at the home of his always faithful assistant. Jules Bernard.

He knocked, loud and clear, thrice. Muffled voices from within. One a woman's and one he knew to be Jules's. The door opened, and he was greeted to the sight of M. Bernard with a robe and house slippers on.

The man's eyes widened when he saw who it was. Erik had not graced his doorstep in years - Jules always, always came to him. He collected himself after a moment and turned around to speak to his wife, "Return to bed, dearest."

"But who is it, Jules?"

"It's-" He faltered. Annette Bernard knew of Erik's existence, but she certainly didn't like him enough to tolerate his presence after midnight. Even if he did pay for her to eat. "We will talk in a bit, my love. Return to bed."

"But, darling-"

"Return to bed, Annette," he finally said, and his commanding tone was enough that Erik could hear her slippered feet retreating further into the apartment. Jules turned back to him, jaw set. "Sir. It's - late. Is everything... What-" He cleared his throat, shifted his feet, and exhaled. "How may I be of service, sir?" Just then, alarm whitened his features. "Is it your guest? I - you said she fell ill too. Is she...?"

"She's recovered well, M. Bernard. Not to worry."

He exhaled again in relief. "That's excellent news, sir." A brief look behind him. "Would you like to enter?"

The reluctant color to his tone gave Erik the good enough sense to smile faintly and say, "No, M. Bernard. I shan't be long. We can speak out here." He eyed his assistant's robe and slippers. "Unless you'd prefer to go in, of course."

"Oh, no, that's quite all right, sir." Jules came out and closed the door behind him, so that they were both in the dim foyer of the building. "What do you require, sir?"

"I wish for a ring."

"A ring, sir? What sort of ring?"

"An engagement ring."

Jules had the audacity to look stricken. "I see." He opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it. "Who is the fortunate young lady, sir?"

Erik made an involuntary wry noise in his throat. Fortunate indeed. "Christine."

Bewilderment swam in his eyes. "Pardon, sir, but isn't she... Apologies, sir, but I was under the distinct impression that she is married already." After a moment, he froze and his lips thinned with sudden, horrible suspicion.

Erik waved a gloved hand. "Oh, come off it, Jules. I've not touched a hair on that scoundrel's head. Christine's husband is alive and well, or so I presume."

"Oh! Oh...y-yes, sir, of course... I didn't-" Jules sputtered, even as relief relaxed his posture.

"But," Erik continued, "a man can...fantasize, can't he? Prepare, just in case the opportunity does arise. Opportunity, not at my own hands, of course, but...at the hands of fate. Anything can happen, yes?"

"Yes, sir." Jules eyed him, then. Really looked at him. Erik had his turn to shift slightly. It was like he saw him for the first time. "Forgive me if I speak out of turn, but...it seems to me that you...it seems, perhaps, you love her, sir."

Erik had to look away. He forced out a chuckle, hoping for it to sound nonchalant but it only came out bitter. He knew how it looked, and knew even more how it felt: he finally fell in love with a kind, lovely woman - and she was already married. "What gave it away, M. Bernard? It couldn't have been the fact that I asked for an engagement ring, could it?"

"But you do love her, sir?"

Erik met his gaze again. "Is it a shock to you that I love someone, M. Bernard?"

"You've never spoken of loving a woman before, sir."

"Because I never have before."

The expression on his face softened. "What I mean is... Sir, the last time I saw her, she seemed...happy. As happy as she could be, rather. Comfortable, is what I mean. It's clear that you have been kind. Real love is kind. So you - it seems, perhaps, that you really love her." A pause. "In a way a girl like her needs to be loved, if Nadir's story about her marriage, her husband, is true."

Erik stared at him, speechless.

"I will get the ring, sir, whether or not you can..." A small, polite smile. "Man's duty to women is to care for and protect them. So it is good that she has someone to care for and protect her, after what she has been through. If I may say so, sir. What sort of ring shall I fetch?"

- - - - - - - - - -

Samuel Autin's sister was named Francine.

Was.

Her husband had been like Claude Porcher. Cruel and careless about that cruelty.

Autin had found no proof that Mme. Porcher had been killed. He hoped and prayed that Christine had managed to run away. A sick, primal part of the detective wished that he found a body, though. The guillotine had been banned just two months ago, as well as all capital punishment - but still. Seeing her sick husband rot in jail would have made his years of service to Paris worth it.

He wished he could have arrested his own father for beating him and his sister after the tragic death of their mother. Francine fell into the arms of a man she thought was safe and different the moment she could.

He wasn't safe. He wasn't different.

The second he was called to their apartment months after their marriage, saw her swinging from a rope around her neck, body full of bruises and a letter of suicidal intent on the floor, was the second he swore off marriage entirely. He was terrified he would become his father, the way his sister became their mother.

He told everyone, even himself, that he wouldn't marry because he worried about a faithless wife. That his job and all he'd seen solving cases had put him off matrimony.

But, deep in the night, as he downed his third glass of brandy and pored over old letters from his sister that told of her hopes that her husband became kind...it was in moments like this that he silently admitted the truth. He was simply too frightened of finding a monster lurking beneath his righteous skin.

That the demon hunter was a demon in disguise. That he was an apple that, despite all efforts, wasn't as far from the tree as he hoped he was.

He poured a fourth glass.

God, if he ever found Christine...

He drank.

He'd smuggle her out of the damn country himself. Job duties be absolutely damned.

Chapter Text

There were plenty of moments in Christine's days that she thought of Claude. Of the months and months completely wasted - months that could have been spent in happiness rather than fear. Grief or panic would seize her, and she'd be left frozen, trying to remember how to breathe, trying to bring herself back to where she really was.

This panic didn't happen, though, when she read. Between the pages of a book, she didn't give a thought to her husband.

She didn't think about him, either, when Erik gave her singing lessons. Secure within the walls of beautiful music, nothing painful could reach her.

As she sang today, she was overcome with that feeling of security. Safety and comfort - those emotions morphed within her and she watched and listened as they told of joy and confidence. She sang these beautiful feelings from the depth of her heart.

She hadn't even noticed she'd closed her eyes, the emotions were so bright and vivid. But when she opened them, Erik was staring at her with blazing intensity, eyes shining with what looked like happiness equal to hers.

"That was wonderful, my dear." His perpetually smooth voice was actually husky. He cleared his throat and looked down, appearing to collect himself. "Truly beautiful, Christine."

Her head buzzed, cheeks hot, and she suddenly didn't know what to do with her hands. "Thank you, Erik."

He smiled. His misshapen lips, that she'd once found horrifying, were now lovely - especially when he smiled. Even that hole where his nose should have been was endearing. "I think you're ready for a more advanced composition."

"Oh?"

"Yes." He didn't look at her. "Have you heard of the opera Aida?"

"I haven't. Is it very good?"

"Quite good. Giuseppe Verdi conducted it here at the Paris Opera last year in March. It was sung in French. I have the musical scores here in my study." He met her eyes. "Would you like to try it?"

She nodded. "Yes. I'll try it, if you believe I am capable."

"Oh, yes. Quite capable, I think." He rose to go to his desk and opened up a drawer. "It won't be perfect, of course - but that's perfectly all right. It can be the new song we practice your voice on." He pulled out a small stack of paper and handed it to her. Words underneath music notes stared back at her, and she was relieved to see that it wasn't too terribly complicated. "You'll be singing the role of the prima donna - Aida herself."

"What's the song about?"

"It's about...Aida is a slave girl from Ethiopia who falls in love with the Egyptian soldier Radames. Radames loves her too, an offense punishable by death - and so he is sealed in an underground tomb." He barely moved. "In this song, we find out that Aida chose to seal herself in with him, living out the rest of her days beneath the earth with the man she loves." He turned and went to the piano. "It's a duet. I'll sing as Radames. I know it by heart." Erik sat and plated the starting note. "Whenever you are ready."

Christine's heart thundered as she reviewed the sheet music.

Well, if this wasn't completely on-the-nose...

After several minutes of scanning the notes and lyrics, she nodded that she was ready. Erik played music to lead her in, and she sang. Erik stared at the keys as he pressed them, and when she finished her part, and waited for him to start...

He froze.

Breathing heavily.

"Erik?" She watched him in concern. "Erik, are you all right?"

His fingers shook. "This was a mistake."

"Sorry?" Christine looked down at the pages, wondering if there was a problem with the song. "What was a mistake?"

"Having you sing...this."

"Why is it a mistake?" She was bewildered.

He shook his head and rose from the bench. "Utterly asinine...I will pick a new song. One that doesn't speak of love within a cold, dark crypt. It was a mistake. And so, too, was that godforsaken engagement ring."

Now Christine froze. "Engagement ring?"

Erik nearly dropped the new sheet music he'd picked up from his desk drawer..

"What engagement ring?"

Slowly, he turned to her, sadness in his eyes. "It doesn't matter, my dear."

Her heartbeat was in her throat. "What engagement ring, Erik?" She gripped the music so tightly that she surely permanently creased it. "And why was that song a mistake? Please answer."

He closed his eyes and sighed. When he opened them, they showed resignation. "You don't want me to rid of your husband. And I will not. I will respect your wishes. I only want you to be happy. All I want, really, is your happiness-" He paused. "Your husband lives. That means you are married. And so it matters not that I tell you, Christine, that you are the first woman I ever wanted to wed."

Her heart stopped altogether.

"I love you. And I'm unafraid to tell you because it truly doesn't make a difference - because I can't have you."

Christine didn't stop to think. Elation moved her body forward. She stood before him, looking up at him, and whispered, "I love you, too."

She brought her hand to the back of his head and pulled his trembling lips to hers.

- - - - - - - - - -

For all Claude appreciated the existence of Iago for the reason Othello killed his wife, there was just one problem he could not seem to think his way out of.

Nobody had actually forced Othello's hand.

No matter how many times Claude read the play, that thought remained. Iago was senseless and evil. But Othello should have known better.

And as for Claude.

He lay awake at nearly four in the morning, chest heavy and mind restless.

If Othello should have known better, then what was Claude's excuse? He could blame his cruelties on some fictional, metaphorical Iago, or on his past, or on Christine's shrinking trust in him...but when it came down to facts, it had been him who'd dealt all the blows.

Nobody had forced his hand.

He'd failed. As a husband, he'd failed.

And perhaps he wasn't capable of anything else.

He wanted to think that, if given another chance, he'd logic himself out of Iago's evil words. That he'd change. But then he remembered that Iago hadn't killed Desdemona.

Othello had.

Chapter Text

The girl of gold was not so gold anymore.

Oh, yes, her skin was still the color of jonquils in the sun, but it had lost its shimmer. Her hair had dulled and darkened from a glittering yellow to a matte brown, and her teeth whitened.

The girl was thrilled at this new development, but the dragon, who appeared to be undergoing a change of his own, was not.

The dragon was shrinking. Once large and imposing, able to fill a large room, he was now the size of a human man - though he did retain his scales and claws and teeth and wings.

Now, the reason his new size was a problem was not necessarily because he enjoyed his own enormous, frightful appearance or liked the power that came with it - though it didn't hurt - but rather because he could no longer take the girl of gold up into the air on his back. This had become the most joyous part of his day, and to know it could no longer happen was causing him anguish.

In fact, he did attempt taking her onto his back, but his wings could barely lift them both off the ground.

The girl smiled at him and told him that it was fine. But it was not fine. He wanted her to fly - to see the stars from up high.

An idea came to mind. He led her up, through countless corridors of the castle, and into the tallest towers. The ceiling of this tower had once been a glass dome, long since chipped away, by the elements, leaving the tower exposed to the night sky.

He laid down on the floor. She rested next to him.

"This is just as good," she said reassuringly. "And, like this, there is no possibility of falling."

"I would not have let you fall," he said with confidence.

She looked at him, then. For a long while. "You have become very dear to me. Very dear indeed."

The dragon closed his now-brown eyes. "I feel the same."

They fell asleep together, as they'd done for several nights past.

In her sleep, the girl - the queen - lost every inch of gold that had once touched her skin.

The dragon lost his scales and claws and teeth and wings, turning him back into the prince he'd once been.

They had not known it but the words they'd whispered to each other in the dark had been a magic more powerful than any curse.

- - - - - - - - - -

The kiss lingered long enough for Erik to feel his own head begin to absolutely spin with shock and pleasure and deep feelings of love.

Christine.

His beautiful, kind, wonderful Christine.

If he'd not known it before, this kiss on his lips solidified it: he would die for her. Move the planets and stars for her. He would be whatever she wanted - whatever she needed. Anything to ensure she felt safe and content.

There was nothing - absolutely nothing - he would not have done to ensure that.

When she pulled away, she smiled gently up at him. He must have been watching her with enough dumbfounded wonder that he appeared unnerved, because that pretty smile faltered. "Erik?"

With a shaking hand, he cupped her cheek. His voice was strained as he said, "My darling..."

She relaxed into his palm, making his heart skip - leap with wild abandon.

"Come. Come with me." His hand went to hers and he pulled her away.

"What - where are we going?"

"To the roof, Christine. To the roof. Under the stars. Into the beautiful night air."

"Why to the roof?"

"I want to be there with you." He turned to her, feeling himself break into a smile he couldn't quite control. "I want to be just a man, confessing his love to the woman he loves, underneath a Parisian moon. That's what I want."

Christine's unadulterated happiness at that prospect was enough to make him want to serenade her right here on the spot. But there was no time for that.

Instead, Erik pulled her into the boat on the lake after they'd both donned their coats. He took her all the way to the roof, just as he said. The stars were indeed shimmering, as if they were hosting a grand party to celebrate the affection found between the two unlikely souls below.

The air was cool but not uncomfortable. Crisp but not biting. A perfect night. An absolutely perfect night for a moment like this.

"Christine," he said. "Christine, I know that this is a fool's errand, but at least for now...at least for the time being, we can pretend we live in an ideal world so that I can..." He knelt, and pulled out a small black box from his coat pocket. He hardly believed what he did. "I want to ask you to marry me. If God decides to set the world in our favor, I want you to be my wife."

The love and heartbreak that stirred in her eyes nearly set Erik to weeping. He knew. He knew how utterly hopeless it was to ask for this - but it would destroy him not to ask after tat soul-changing kiss. That kiss that proved to him that some part of his black, shriveled heart could truly receive love from someone like Christine.

He had to ask. Even if the answer was obviously no. After all, how could a married woman accept a marriage proposal?

But she didn't say no.

Not exactly, anyway.

"You'd actually, truly want me?" She stared at him. "You'd really want to marry me?"

"I would. Absolutely, I would."

She chewed on her lip. He stared at the redness caused by the friction of her teeth against skin. Then she said, "I'm broken, Erik."

He blinked. Then actually laughed. "You? No. Me? Most definitely. But so long as that's not strictly an issue for you..."

She continued like she hadn't fully heard him. "But I am damaged, Erik. I wake with nightmares every other night, shouting for you to come. I jump at my own shadow. I don't know if that will ever stop."

"We've found ways to cope through that, my dear," he reminded her gently. "And if it continues forever, it's hardly a bother to me. I only wish to help you through it."

Still, she looked away, doubt and sadness over that doubt watering her eyes.

He tried a different tactic, his voice becoming markedly even softer. He pocketed the ring for now and stood. "In Japan, there is an art known as kintsugi. Have you ever heard of it?"

She looked at him again and shook her head no.

"The artists take broken ceramics - plates and vases, and the like - and they file the edges to make them smooth. They leave a gap between those pieces, making it known that the ceramic is, in fact, broken; they pour molten gold in the gaps to fuse the pieces together, to make the ceramic whole." A pause. He watched as strands of her hair came loose and flew in a sudden wind. "They make the ceramic beautiful."

Christine was still, watching him, gripping tightly to every word.

"Your husband did his best to shatter your spirit. And even if he did for a moment, you are whole. And you shine - your soul shines - much brighter than I think you give yourself credit for."

Tears slid down her eyes. Not unhappy tears.

Erik pulled her into him. Held her close. Held her like she was indeed his and like and he was hers as well.

"I'll marry you, Erik, of course," she murmured into his chest. "If fate sways that way, I will marry you."

He could have died happy right there - been struck down by God Himself and then thanked Him for the happy ending. But there was no time for that.

They embraced on the roof for nearly an hour, with Erik pulling away once, and only long enough to kneel again and put the engagement ring on her finger.

Chapter Text

Only one detective came to Nadir's home this time. The one named Autin.

Nadir sat with a cup of tea on a saucer, which rested on his knee. He stared at Autin, who sat across from him on the couch and stirred sugar into his own cup.

"Thank you," said the detective mildly, though a briskness undercut his tone, "for the tea. And for allowing me in at such a late hour."

"It's no trouble," responded Nadir. He didn't bother asking again why the detective was here. He'd asked twice already, with no response. He'd only smiled joylessly and answered, "I will explain."

"M. Khan," said Autin, "I must tell you that I have strong suspicions that Christine is alive - and not just alive, but well."

Nadir felt his heart pause. "Oh? Well, M. Autin, if you have news of where she is-"

"Stop. We both know she was badly abused."

Nadir watched him, startled at his bluntness. "Yes."

Autin sighed and looked away. "That may not be against the law, M. Khan, but I find it reprehensible."

"As do I."

"If I was a battered woman, the first thing I would do is run and find a living relative, or someone safe at least. Then I'd have them hide me somewhere my husband could not find me. I'd consider any policeman that searched for me to be the worst kind of devil."

He stared at the detective, entirely still.

Autin's eyes went to him again. "Does your ward want to be found, M. Khan?"

There was enough strange pleading in the detective's eyes, that Nadir paused just a second too long before replying, "I do not know. I don't know where she is."

Autin noticed the pause. He caught it and tugged, gripping tightly. "If you do not know, then I will have no choice but to assume that she does want to be found, and the search will continue."

Nadir kept his mouth closed.

"My sister was beaten, and it cost her the young life that should have been spent in love and happiness. If Christine does not wish to be found, then far be it from me to lead her toward the same fate that my dear sister - God rest her tortured soul - met. Please, M. Khan...does Christine want to be found?"

He grit his teeth, watching the detective. His years in the Persian police had trained him to easily detect a lie. But Nadir saw no signs of deception now. And what if what the man said was true?...

Nadir had seconds to make a decision before the detective knew he was lying for certain.

The idea of them discovering his ward's location terrified him.

He opened his mouth before he actually knew what he would say-

"No," he ground out, instantly regretting his decision but already making plans to never see Christine again. "No, she does not want to be found. But I will say nothing more. You can imprison me, torture me, kill me if you'd like. I will not say more. So cuff me, detective, and take me away for impeding this investigation. I'll never speak another word about it."

Autin stared at him, dumbfounded. Then relief took over and he inhaled deeply. He stood, never having touched his tea. "Thank you, M. Khan. This information has proven entirely useless and unhelpful. I think it's time I labeled this case to be freezing cold. That will be all. Have a pleasant evening. You will not be hearing from me again."

- - - - - - - - - -

It was Christine's second opera seen from Box Five.

And she was not in the least bit interested. In fact, she'd forgotten its name entirely. She forgot her own name, too, lost in Erik's tight, loving embrace. She was buzzing with life, sitting in Erik's lap.

She had to sit there, really. There was no other choice. After all, the hidden room behind Box Five had only one chair, and it wouldn't do for either one of them to stand.

Christine deepened their kiss - which had not been precisely shallow to begin with - and Erik let out a distinctive, low moan. Her hairs stood on end as she gripped his black vest, and his fingers slid into her updo. She felt it loosen, but she hardly cared.

The ring on her hand glistened in the minimal light. She didn't see it. All she could think about was how glad she was that no one occupied the visible, open seats of Box Five.

Because if Erik had been less than a gentleman and rook her right here and now in this tiny, cramped room, she would have been helpless to say anything but yes.

If Nadir could see her-

Not the time.

She lost herself once more into his touch. His lips. His scent. His sound.

Him.

- - - - - - - - - -

Claude had figured it out.

At least, it was the closest thing he had to a clue. He had to pursue it, even if this hunch went absolutely nowhere.

Nadir left his apartment. Claude was on a walk when he saw him. He often passed by the old man's home, wishing he had the courage to go in and confront him.

Nadir looked to be on a mission, frequently checking his pocket.

Curiosity piqued, Claude followed very far behind, turning away if the man ever looked back. It was after dark, and so he hoped that his features were adequately hidden.

After several streets, Nadir approached an apartment building. Entered it. Ten or so minutes. He exited, followed by a red-haired man. The two of them shared a brief, almost imperceptible look. One not noticeable if someone hadn't been watching. The unfamiliar man held a lantern.

And something told Claude to follow the red-haired man.

This was how he ended up at a strange sewer gate on Rue Scribe, pressing the middle knuckle of his finger into the man's back. The man held a set of keys, pushing one of the keys into the gate lock. He gave a small start at the contact of Claude's finger, and was about to turn around, but Claude thought faster.

"This is a revolver pressed to your back," he lied. "Don't turn to look."

The man went rigid. "I've no money-"

"I do not want money," he hissed, and pressed harder, which made the man gasp. "I want my wife. I know you know where she is."

A pause, then: "I don't know what you are talking about."

Claude had no time for games. "Open the gate," he growled. "Open it now, or I will shoot."

The man glanced once to his right, once to his left, but the street was bare. Another long silence before he said, "As you wish, M. Porcher."

With a jolt of victory at the confirmation of truth that his uttered name confirmed, Claude followed the man through the gate and down, down, down into what he realized was a labyrinth below.

It was only after they'd made several twists and turns that he realized he'd made a grave error.

For the man suddenly doused the lantern and bolted from his reach. Even if he'd truly had a revolver, he would have been too surprised to shoot it. Though, he supposed, he really shouldn't have been shocked. Had he not been filled with dread, he might have laughed at his own stupidity.

Claude was left in pitch blackness.

And he'd not paid attention to the path through which he'd come.

Chapter Text

The king was overcome with dark glee at find out the location of his missing queen. She was hidden away in the forest, and with a dragon of all things. A great beast had his wife. And he, the gallant king, would rescue her. Whether she liked it or not.

But the moment the Obsidian Ravens told him of her location, they upheld their side of the bargain. It was time to collect. Collect they did. The moment the words left their beaks, the king's power to turn all he touched to gold left his hands and went to their talons. They absorbed it. Didn't use it - added it to their collection. Their bank of payments, from which they could draw should a human ask for that exact ability in the future.

He entered the forest of changing trees, and just as soon became lost.

Without his magic, he could not navigate this place. He was an ordinary man now.

Ordinary, and as the sun lowered below the top of the ever-shifting woods, he was so very afraid.

- - - - - - - - - -

Erik would never, ever tire of Christine's kisses. The way her lips lingered on his, the light breaths that told of her pleasure when his fingers stroked her hair. The smiles as she pulled away and looked at his face.

No one had smiled at his face before. Not, at least, with actual joy. To be polite, or to laugh, perhaps. But never because they were genuinely happy to behold him.

Surely he'd used up the rest of his luck, and she'd be the only good thing in his life for the remainder of his days.

Well. If that was the case, then so be it. This was more than he'd ever thought possible, and more than he ever wanted. So much better than he imagined it would be - even if she was still married to another man.

It was Erik she loved. That was what mattered.

"I'm not in the least bit tired," she claimed as they descended to the dock upon the lake. "The opera was very good."

"Hm." He grinned, relishing the feeling of her hand in his. He wore the mask now, as his assistant sometimes arrived randomly with letters from Nadir. "Do you actually recall the story, my dear."

She grinned back. "Not in the slightest. It was very good all the same. From my perspective, at least."

He laughed, but then stopped short when he saw a wide-eyed, pale Jules Bernard standing straight and with a lantern in his hands, looking up at them where they stood on the stairs.

"Sir," he said lowly. "Sir, there's been...something's happened."

Erik frowned. He walked further down the steps. "What is it, M. Bernard?"

"Christine's husband."

Her hand went stiff in his.

"What about him, Jules?" asked Erik.

"He...I don't know how he figured it out, sir, but he threatened me into bringing him down here. He claimed he had a revolver and made me walk. But I led him down a false path in the labyrinth and left him there in the dark. I doubt he will find his way down here, even if he had a source of light..." He swallowed. "I'm sorry, sir. I didn't know what to do."

Rage boiled in Erik, hot and like tar, like magma. Thick. Deadly.

That rodent. Threatening his assistant, coming after Christine this way. No shock that he was, but all the same...

The words left him in a hiss, "You did well, Jules. Now the rat can decay in the sewers where he belongs. We shall simply have to wait...oh, three days? And then he'll die from lack of water."

Christine's voice was tiny. "What if he finds his way here?"

"He'll likely walk into the lake and drown, won't he? He has no light. If the devil favors him, he will find his way to the surface - and lucky for us, I doubt the police will believe the ramblings of a man claiming his wife is hidden in the sewers, without proof of course." He stared hard at Jules. "Does he have proof?"

"No idea, sir. He didn't say much - just that he knows she must be here."

"Well - then it's like I said. We hope he rots. Come Christine. Jules. Let's have some tea and calm ourselves against this news. I think it might be a blessing in disguise."

He attempted to pull her forward, but she seemed to be frozen to the spot. He turned to her, and saw that she stared off, brows stitched, looking at nothing in particular. A troubled expression was on her face.

"Christine?" said Erik, and then softened his voice. "My dear, I know that this must have shaken you, but I promise I will not allow any harm to come-"

"I want to talk to him."

Silence fell upon the three of them. Erik glanced at Jules for a moment, who seemed just as taken aback as he was. He looked back at the woman he loved. "You what?"

"I want to talk to him, Erik." Her eyes were determined; two shiny blue stones. "I want to say goodbye."

His jaw stiffened. "Why?"

She considered the question. It didn't seem that she didn't know the answer, but rather that she didn't know how to express it in words. After a moment, she decided on one word for an answer: "Finality."

He wanted to grind his teeth. "Christine, he may try to hurt you; and if you show yourself to him, he will have proof you are down here."

"He will have no more proof than before. Merely saying he saw me is not proof. Whatever evidence he had before he still has - and, Erik, I know this might seem pathetic, but I don't want him to die. I don't love him, but I did once - and I don't want him to die. I want to lead him to the surface and then tell him to leave me alone." She stepped closer to him and took his other hand. "And I want you to come with me. You'll keep me safe if he tries anything against me. Please."

- - - - - - - - - -

Claude didn't wander very far.

This place was the very definition of darkness. Perhaps this silent, black place was Hell. Perhaps that little red-haired man had been Death himself, and the gate at Rue Scribe the doors to the afterlife. Perhaps he'd been judged as he passed through, and the judgement had not been in his favor.

Fear was an understatement. It was dread. Dread, that he would be in these stone halls forever, not ever seeing light again, never again hearing anything but his own shallow breaths.

He felt along the walls and made the first right he could. He knew the last turn had been a left, so going backwards it would be a right. But after that? He had no idea. He hadn't paid any goddamn attention. He'd been an absolute fool. And now he was paying the price.

But then: a light. There, around a corner, casting a golden hue against the wall.

"Hello?" he called. "Hello? Who's there?"

Footsteps, but no response.

"Hello? Who are you?"

Perhaps it was that little man, having taken pity on him.

But then, he saw a tall, skeletal figure round the corner, and Claude shrunk against the wall. The figure wore a mask and held a lantern in his gloved hand. He wore all black - black hat, black shoes, black cloak over black clothes. But the blackness in his gaze was most terrifying at all. The hatred he saw there was nothing short of what he expected of Satan.

"Claude Porcher," said the figure, with a voice too beautiful for his appearance. "Stay where you are and do not take a single step closer. If you do, it will be the very last move you make. Do you understand?"

He nodded. No question, he wanted to move away, not closer.

But then, from behind him, stepped Christine.

His wife. His missing wife. Here, in this black Hell.

He nearly did move closer, but then the figure took a threatening step in his direction, and Claude moved back. His eyes, though, never left her.

"Christine," he breathed. "My love."

The figure snarled.

Christine looked at him with a strange, sad expression. Pained. Was she in danger? Had this...thing taken her in the night?

He held out a hand, glancing at the masked man. "Come, my darling, away from here. Come. We will find our way out together."

Her throat bobbed. She looked away.

"She does not want to go with you," said the shadowy man in an equally shadowy tone. "She does not want you."

"She is my wife."

"And yet it's because of you she arrived here with bruises."

Slowly, he lowered his hand. He stared hard at his wife, who'd closed her eyes.

"Christine," he said, "I'm so sorry."

Her eyes opened again, slowly, and they landed on him.

"I'm sorry." He brought his hands together in placation. "I'm sorry. I was wrong. I should never have put my hands on you."

"Why did you?" she finally spoke.

"Because I was...I didn't..." How to even explain it? "I didn't know how else to...to feel..."

"Powerful?" suggested the figure darkly. "Oh, what a big, powerful man, dominating over a helpless-"

"No!" shouted Claude, but he didn't have an alternative that sounded any better. He hurt her because...because? Because he was scared she would leave? He wanted her to be the one afraid rather than him? He wanted her to be more obedient or cater more to his needs?

No matter how he could have said it...yes. Power. It was power.

"Christine," he said again, looking at her. "Listen to me. I will not harm you again, if you come with me. I will not hurt you. I've learned my lesson. You can come home now."

Her face fell and she looked down. "No, Claude. I'm not going with you."

His heart dropped. "What?"

A whisper. "I'm not going with you."

"I don't understand."

"She's answered your question, Porcher." The masked man held up the lantern a bit higher, somehow making his mask even more terrifying in the brighter light. "Do not make her answer again."

"I won't hurt you, Christine," said Claude, hands beginning to shake. "I already said that I won't hurt you again."

"I heard you," she said softly.

"Then why aren't you coming with me?"

"Because I want to stay here."

"Here!" he exclaimed. "Here! In this dungeon! Rather than with me."

"Yes."

Anger, much like the terrible poison he always felt when he lost control of his own hands, overtook him. But now there was the barrier of that shadowy bastard. "You will come with me, Christine."

A pause, then: "No."

"Why not!"

"I don't love you anymore, Claude. I don't want to go with you."

His nostrils flared. "And who do you love now, Christine? This beast in front of you?"

She met his eyes. "Yes."

A shout of rage escaped his lips. The anger exploded, uncontrolled, and he slammed his fist against the wall. "No! No, you will come with me! You are my wife, and you will-"

He stopped, when he realized the man was walking toward him. Claude gasped deeply, stumbled back, and fell onto his bottom. His palms were scraped as he scrambled backward.

"She's answered your question, Porcher," he said, staring down at him with unadulterated loathing. "And it's like I said. She does not want to go with you."

It took everything in him to drag his eyes away from this monster and back toward his wife. "Christine. Please."

"I'm sorry, Claude."

The anger dissipated, and was replaced by regret and hopelessness at the realization that he'd lost control, yet again. Even as he promised he wouldn't, he had.

His eyes welled. "I'm trying."

She bit her lip.

"I'm trying. I'm a failure. I'm trying. Please."

Please, stay. Please, allow another chance. Please, stay while Othello tried and failed to rid himself of Iago. Please, Desdemona, forgive Othello for the murder that wasn't his really his fault but also was his fault but wasn't but was but-

"I love you, Christine." The tears fell. "I love you. I'm sorry."

She closed her eyes, and tears dropped down her cheeks as well. "If you love me, Claude," she said, voice wavering, "then please leave me be. If you ever really did love me, then leave me alone. Forever."

His heart tore completely open.

Without her, what did he have to live for?

But-

If he forced her to come, she'd never love him. And that lack of love would only cause more anger. And that would cause more beatings. And...and...

A sort of calm settled over Claude. A deep, empty calm. An understanding.

If he ever loved her, he would save her from the monster.

He stood. "Show me the way out."

"And if you tell the police where we are?" said the man in the mask.

"I won't."

"If you do, I will find and kill you."

Claude smiled sadly. "The police do not like me and I doubt they'll believe anything I say." He looked again at her. "I am wiping my hands of you. I am hereby divorcing you, before God, with or without the government's consent. Consider our souls untethered."

She stared at him, shocked. She hadn't fully believed he'd give her this one last kindness. She had so little faith in him. He didn't blame her.

"Show me the way out, and you will not hear from me again. I will disappear."

"You will go where?" she asked.

Another sad smile, a mirror to the emptiness of his soul. "Presume me dead. Presume yourself a young widow, free to marry as you choose."

"Presume?"

Again, he only said, "Show me the way out."

Chapter Text

Christine's hands were quivering.

It was adrenaline. Adrenaline borne of leftover fear - yes, of course - but also of the distinct feeling that her heart was beating, she was beating, and she'd successfully rid herself of that terrible ghost that had followed her for weeks.

In short, she was alive. She was alive, and if Claude was to be believed, she was to be left in peace. She wanted to believe him; but whether Erik did or not, he was already making plans and provisions.

"Our security here has been breached," he told Jules once they were at the lake once more. Jules had waited there for them to return. "Even if the police do not believe Claude, should he go to them, it will no doubt draw attention to Rue Scribe nonetheless. Questions will be asked, investigations could occur, with or without the purpose of finding Christine. The last thing I want is for some investigator to send his dogs down here to sniff out the lake."

"I understand, sir." Jules looked miserably ashamed, so much so that Christine had the strong desire to reach out and touch his shoulder, tell him that it wasn't his fault. "I should have been more careful, sir."

"Tonight wasn't a delivery day for supplies," remarked Erik, "so I assume you have a letter from Nadir?"

"Oh - I do." He seemed to just remember that the letter was on his person as he reached into his inside coat pocket, and brought out an envelope. "I don't know of its contents, although Nadir wanted to mention that he won't be coming by as often."

"Well, he might as well come," said Erik. He took a deep breath. "We will be leaving as soon as we can, so it doesn't matter now. Go and fetch Nadir, Jules - just be sure you're not followed this time. Be certain, M. Bernard, and if you are - turn right around."

Christine stared at him. So did Jules. "Where are we going?" she asked.

Erik looked at her. "Perhaps to the country. As I said, our location is compromised. No one will think to look for you in a cottage on the other side of France, will they? Why, if you like, we could leave the country entirely. We could go back to your home nation of Sweden, even." Then, a smile. "Besides, a crypt is hardly a place to start a family."

His meaning sunk in, and she beamed with real happiness, with hope in a real future. "That sounds lovely, Erik."

"You're leaving, sir?" said Jules, suddenly nervous.

"And you're free to come, M. Bernard, if you wish to stay on as my assistant."

"I...have a family here, sir. I would feel guilty asking to uproot us. My wife's friends are here. My children's friends."

"Then I would be more than willing to write you a letter of recommendation. But do this last favor for me, Jules, and find Nadir. He will want to say goodbye."

- - - - - - - - - -

"Have you thought of an ending for that story, Erik?"

Christine sat up in bed, looking at him with love. It was almost day now, and Nadir had left their house an hour ago. He'd visited until approximately four in the morning. Erik didn't need sleep, but that was fine. While Christine slept in until after noon, he'd make preparations for their move.

He'd miss this house - but the idea of picnicking in a field with Christine, the sun shining on his bare face, made it worth it. He cared more for her than any piece of architecture he'd built.

Leaving his coffin behind and instead sleeping in a bed - a bed he'd share with her - was also not something he dreaded. He would tell her one day about the coffin. He'd go into more detail about his entire life. They had time to do so. Time and peace - nothing but endless sky hanging over their heads.

Nadir had been shocked to hear they'd move - and even more shocked when he'd seen the ring on Christine's finger. Not enraged - just baffled. He'd not expected this outcome, and no doubt the idea of his old friend with his ward, decades between them, had made him at least slightly uncomfortable. But such things were certainly not unheard of; and when he saw how gentle Erik spoke to Christine, and with how much love she regarded him, Nadir had softened to the idea. By the end of the night, he seemed even to support it.

And, he said, he was growing tired of Paris. Its filth and crime and poverty, even while much of it was beautiful.

He'd heard that Uppsala, Sweden was beautiful. Gustave had told him so. He wouldn't mind following them there and, maybe, living down the street. Christine had squealed with happiness; Erik had pretended at annoyance at first, but quickly changed his tune when he saw how happy his love was.

Ayesha hopped up onto the bed. Christine smiled and reached out a hand. She stroked behind the cat's ears.

"I do have an ending. Would you like to hear it?"

Chapter Text

There once was a prince who was no longer a dragon. He was in love with a girl who was no longer made of gold.

The cruel king, without his magic, wandered for days before, by some miracle, he indeed found his way out of that ever-shifting forest. While in the forest, a strange thing happened. His magic had come from his heart, which was gilded and cold. His cold heart had made him cruel, as though he had no heart at all. But when the Obsidian Ravens took his magic, they took the gold from his heart too. And over the hours and days that he spent in that forest, his cruelty slowly abated, and he realized the horror that he'd put his queen through.

Maybe the trees saw his change of heart. Maybe they decided to give him another chance, and that was why they spit him out.

The king went back to his palace, and told the world that his queen was dead. And he went into mourning. Mourning for all he could have been, all the happiness he'd taken from his queen.

He went into his chambers and ruled quietly from behind closed doors. The only reason anyone knew he was alive was because his guards and advisors claimed he still lived - but no one ever saw him again.

Meanwhile, at the castle in the ever-changing forest, the prince and his newlywed princess began plans to renovate their decrepit castle. They would use the gold the dragon - the prince - had amassed. They would start a family, a life of happiness and love. Something they never thought possible. Either one of them.

They would spend their days gazing at the stars in the tallest towers. They would fall asleep side by side, kept comfortable by one another's warmth. They would smile, for they had reason to.

And they would live happily ever after.

The End.