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Chapter Text

Two years flew by in a blur of frenetic activity. Erik hurled himself into the building of the manor, spending many weeks and francs on restoring its former glory. Don Juan Triumphant was a cancer in his bones, eating him alive. He acknowledged that it was not the merit of the work, or even the architecture of his fantasies that drove him like a beleaguered horse under its coachmaster's whip. It was a frantic attempt to keep him busy. The distance gave him room to breathe, work to occupy his mind and hands, anything to distract him from the addiction more dangerous than morphine: Christine.

She was his singular obsession, greater even than the bondage that tied him to music. Christine—the central axis of his universe.

More than once he was tempted to spirit her away to his home and keep her there, where at last he would reveal the truth of his affections, and present her with his ring and his heart. But always, as the words flew to his lips, or his hands trembled with the urge to touch her, he would remember Minette. His brave friend whose reserved nature hid a warm and gentle heart, she loved Christine as a daughter and cherished her purity. Erik fisted his hands on his knees, staring sightlessly out of the brougham's window as Parisian traffic inched by. He would sacrifice his own soul before he became a Don Juan in fact and ruined Christine.

Even if her beauty was driving him out of his mind.

His beloved white rose had grown thorns. She confounded, confused and challenged him at every turn. One minute their voices would fuse into an entity of living beauty, the next she would defy his will. In her presence he was in a constant state of disquiet, a penitent who had once been king. Maestro, she called him. What a mockery it was! His affliction was of no end amusing to Minette, who snickered into her handkerchief watching him pace and rant.

The brougham pulled into the Cirque de lá Opera and Erik disembarked. He suppressed a snort at the sight of the poster for the opera's new production. Hannibal, a favorite of La Carlotta's. Perhaps because it so easily mimicked her true life, Erik thought bitterly, she played Elissa, a narcissistic, vain little princess and the lover of Hannibal, who was a married man. Piangi was married unhappily to Italian nobility and was notorious for his gambling and his drinking. The embodiment of personal vice were that pair.

Erik slipped into the stables and noted the fine carriage and white horses nibbling on hay, liquid dark eyes regarding him with supercilious disdain. Lefavre's replacements were due. These junk men, Firmin and André, were variables—variables that made Erik uncomfortable. He enjoyed his roles as Phantom and Opera Ghost, lucrative and mysterious as they were. Despite Christine's plea, Erik had yet to relinquish his salary. He needed every franc for the manor. Lefavre's tired abdication challenged the status quo. He must assert his authority and rein them in before they took any grandiose ideas of ownership over his opera. Tonight, Christine would take the stage as was her divine right! He would make it so if he had to drop a set piece on Carlotta's vain head!

"Christine Daae can sing it, sir." Madame volunteered and Christine stared at her warden with a look of shocked betrayal. How could Madame say such a thing? Christine wasn't ready. She knew in her bones she wasn't ready. She would disappoint him! The diminutive grey-haired manager's pig-like eyes darted over her.

"What, a chorus girl? Don't be silly," he said, sweeping a negligent gesture as if to physically discard Madame's suggestion.

"She has been taking lessons from a great teacher," Madame said, giving Christine's arm a gentle squeeze, of encouragement, Christine supposed, though she scarcely felt encouraged being put on the spot like this! Lips thinned an expression of exaggerated patience, André demanded, "Who?"

Christine squirmed under the combined attention of Messieurs André, Firmin, Reyer, and Lefavre, not to mention Madame, Meg and half of the opera!

"Erik," she whispered miserably.

"Erik what?" Firmin pressed.

"Erik," Christine repeated, looking to Madame for assistance. She glanced at her audience and caught the awed look shared by Reyer and Lefavre.

"You are Monsieur Erik's student?" Lefavre asked. Christine nodded.

"Who is this Erik fellow?" André snapped.

"He's only the greatest composer to have ever graced this opera!" Reyer enthused, black eyes shining with approval. Lefavre nodded in agreement.

"If you are ever lucky enough to get another of his works, you'll have a queue out the door, some from as far as La Scala."

"Let her sing for you, Monsieur. She has been well taught," Madame insisted. The junk men shared a long look and finally André shrugged.

"All right. Come along then."

Christine's throat felt as barren as a desert, her mind bereft of any note or chord. The words, Holy Virgin, she couldn't even remember the lyrics! Madame swept her hand in another dubiously encouraging gesture and Christine's suddenly dry, sticky tongue darted out to wet her lips. Reyer hurried to his place and tapped his baton. Faintly, the leading chords began to play and something brushed the edges of her perception, a delicate caress of souls. All of the tension ebbed from her.

He was here.

He was with her.

Recognizing the touch of its master, her voice soared through the notes with ease.

Damn Raoul de Chagny! Erik thought, fuming impotently in the hollow pillar of Box Five. That golden-haired fop, that callow boy, the Populaire's new patron and a bloody Vicomte, had taken his box on the night of Christine's triumph—their triumph! She sang for him!

The gentle building of the orchestra's melody reached him through the layers of stone and plaster that separated him from his protégé. Her voice flowed like a river of living, liquid silver, bathing him in the beauty of her soul. That aristocratic simpleton was rapt, mouth hanging open, giving a very fair imitation of an ox struck with a pole axe.

Think of me, think of me waking

Silent and resigned

Imagine me trying too hard to put you from my mind . . .

A tidal wave of applause tore the cocoon of hushed silence, a spontaneous burst of adoration for the perfection of her aria. His spirit was entwined in the notes, bound inextricably with her voice. They were one. A rush of satisfaction washed over him. Those insipid crowds cheering for her, blind and mute in the thrall of her beauty, they paid homage to him as well, the one they had spurned and hated from the day he was born.

Recall those days, look back on all those times

Think of the things we'll never do

There will never be a day when I won't think of you!

The blond fop leaned against the velvet railing of the box, a look of revelation on his striking features.

Can it be? Can it be Christine?

The Vicomte had a decent tenor, Erik noted clinically. Icy fingers wrapped around Erik's heart. He knew Christine? Where would a boy of the French aristocracy ever cross paths with the daughter of a Swedish violinist? Oh God, this brat with his epicurean parents to indulge him, his wealth, his accursed handsomeness, and this mysterious history with Christine . . . The combination resulted in a rival. Hardly a rival, he reflected bitterly, that implied competition for Christine's affections, a desire he had never dared voice.

The boy burst to his feet, clapping ecstatically, then bouncing out of the box with a stupidly happy smile on his perfect face. Erik dismissed the boy, and the worrying potential of his stake in Christine's heart. He would not abandon his Angel in the moment of her triumph! He emerged from his hiding place and sat in the shadows of Box Five, viscerally pierced by the sight of her in Elissa's ethereal white gown.

Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade

They have their season, so do we

But please promise me that sometime

You will think . . .

The orchestra paused, unsure of the slowing of tempo. The theater was utterly silent save for the lilt of Christine's voice. The silver incandescence softened into a gentle playfulness and Erik laughed breathlessly.

Ah, my love! What a marvelous cadenza! Erik thought.

Reyer caught the gist of her intentions and chimed the finale perfectly.

Of me!

He heard the tread of a step on the plush carpet behind him and turned to find Minette. Hazel eyes flickered over him, taking in his easy posture and the marked lack of the Vicomte's corpse.

"No, Minette, I did not kill him. I was sorely tempted, but I did not," he said with a tolerant smile. As the opera house erupted into rapturous applause and shouted compliments, Erik felt a vicarious buoying of mood.

"Why are you here?" he asked. She gave a Gallic shrug.

"I came to inform the Vicomte that the box had already been rented."

"In the third act, Minette? Hardly. You came to protect him from my wrath." His light tone and easy manner educed a slight smile.

"Perhaps. It seems my fear was unfounded."

Erik made a noncommittal sound in his throat. He would not tell Minette that she needn't fear for the boy's safety. That remained to be seen. Instead, he produced a rose from his vest pocket.

"Give this to Christine. Tell her that I am very pleased."

Minette accepted the token with a lifted brow.

"Will you not tell her yourself, Erik?"

Erik's eyes wandered as if magnetized from Minette to Christine, who blushed and beamed amidst piles of thrown flowers, eyes scanning the crowds restlessly. She was looking for him among the blur of faces, listening for his approval amidst the shouted cheers from her adoring crowd. Erik's heart swelled with love.

De Chagny would not take her from him! Erik would become his rival in fact tonight!

Across the theater, the cheers from the manager's box reached him.

"Brava! Magnifica! Stupenda!" bellowed the brash André in a horrific accent, while Firmin's narrow black gaze was fixed on Christine with a burning intensity that made Erik's stomach turn. He would attend to them later. For now . . .

"I will visit her shortly."

The Vicomte's appearance acted a spur to his long-held desire.

The decision was made.

Tonight would be the night of Persephone's abduction!

Christine rested her pounding head against the cool wood of the vanity's surface, grateful for a moment of quiet, thanks to Madame Giry, and even more grateful to be free of that stifling costume and in a modest gown of sapphire velvet. Her throat tingled with a pleasant strain, arms quivering from the heaping bouquets laid in her arms, ears ringing with applause and incessant yammering of 'Miss Daae!'

She and Erik had spent years preparing for this moment, the moment of their triumph, but still she was overwhelmed with the sudden burden of fame.

Erik! Christine thought. Of late, the Opera Ghost's incidents had taken a violent turn. And now, now that he had threatened the new managers and nearly done Carlotta bodily harm . . . Christine had always loved watching the way he moved, but now she realized what lay behind the slinking predator's grace: danger! Madame's warning was deafening in her ears.

The soft fragrance of roses reached her nose. With a sigh, Christine straightened, frowning at the sight of his token. How could she smell only Erik's gift among all the others? Her head swam with the combined scents. Amidst garish bouquets of pink and white, his rose distinguished itself with its stark elegance and simplicity.

But why had he told Madame Giry to bring it to her? Why not give it himself? A pleasant fission of mirth spread through her at the thought Erik outside her dressing room door with the gaggle of admirers and sycophants, lording over them in his dark evening dress and staring down his long nose at them. Another thought occurred to her, quelling the amusement like the chill of a cold sweat. Christine rubbed her upper arms, gooseflesh stippling her skin. What if she had disappointed him?

"No," Christine whispered.

Madame said he was pleased with me. I sang for him tonight. Didn't he hear it?

Where is he?

His was the only praise she craved, the only smile that would make her heart flutter.

The door handle turned. Christine straightened on the stool, eyes fastened to the point where Erik would appear . . . and was obliged to drop her gaze several inches to meet Raoul's eye.

"Raoul!" she exclaimed.

"Good evening, Little Lotte. It has been too long," he said, flashing a white smile.

"Do you remember me? Those picnics in the attic when we read to each other?" He knelt beside the vanity chair, laying his own gaudy pink bouquet of lilies and freesias on the table.

"With Father playing the violin? Yes, I remember." Christine said, smiling at the fond summer spent by the sea.

"I remember you well, Little Lotte. That hair, those brown eyes. The rest has changed a bit."

"As charming as you were at eleven, saving my scarf, Monsieur," Christine replied tartly.

His intent perusal and familiar manner unnerved her. It had been over ten years since they had seen each other! She berated the silly, twittering part of herself that fawned over his attention. Raoul's thin, mobile mouth lent an air of sensitivity to his charming blond good looks, and his hands were long and aristocratic, nails filed to smooth ovals. If her words irritated him, he gave no sign. Raoul rose and stepped back.

"Forgive me, Miss Daae, I have been extremely rude and offended your modesty. Perhaps I may earn such familiarity over supper." Christine searched his face and tone for an iota of teasing or sarcasm. She found nothing but sky-blue eyes framed by blond lashes, wide and guileless.

Christine twisted her mother's ring around her little finger, contemplating Erik's rose. Supper with Raoul . . . it was such a simple thing, just a casual meeting of old friends. A small voice said that he was not likely to see it that way, but she ignored it. If he wished to see her, he should have come for her himself! She sniffed primly, turning up her nose.

"I'd love to," Christine said. Raoul's luminous smile sent a warm rush of pleasure through her, as did the unexpected kiss on the cheek.

"On the off chance that you said yes, I had my man order my carriage. Where would you like to go?"

She stood, nervously brushing her skirts, feeling a leaden judgment emanating from the silent mirror.

"I have no preference." Raoul threaded her arm through his and winked roguishly, educing a soft giggle.

"I know just the place."

The marble bust struck the mirror with a satisfying crash and an explosion of glittering fragments. Erik's unmasked face leered in the fractured pieces, hair in wild disarray, cravat askew, and coat with a long tear down one arm. His ragged breathing reverberated off the walls. The natural euphoric joy he felt with Christine's triumph had come crashing down when he went to her dressing room and found it empty, when he saw her leaving on the arm of that damned boy! Like with morphine, the euphoria didn't last long.

Erik's eyes sought something else to destroy—the hot, maddened thing in his chest wasn't satisfied yet. He whirled around to face the wall—the shrine—of drawings he'd built of Christine. Wild anguish clawed at his chest, and he seized a wad of parchment, intending on setting it alight. Then eight-year-old Christine's cherubic face stared back at him, eyes creased into crescents as she laughed. Not the woman he craved beyond all reason, but the child he had cosseted and indulged and adored.

Erik replaced the drawing and took up the gondola pole and brought it down with an almighty crack on his organ bench. The creak of weakened wood was like blood to a shark, he pressed the weakness and under the next blow, the abused furniture collapsed into splinters. He snapped the pole in half over his knee and threw the pieces aside. He kicked a candelabra into the lake, swept a hand across his architect's desk watching papers flutter and pens bounce with vicious approval. His breathing was hitching oddly, the tickle of hot moisture on his face. And where was that awful keening noise coming from?

His logical brain presented the answer. The noise was coming from him.

He was sobbing.

Erik swiped his face viciously. Morphine called to him, promising relief. Erik was growing increasingly jaded to her siren calls, and though the compulsion had not waned, Erik had succeeded in diluting the dose to a tolerable level. No, tonight he needed César's speed and strength, the sting of the wind in his face. Erik had the presence of mind and the bizarre sense of vanity to tie on a black bandit's mask and change his coat before thundering off into the night and the cold. César was spoiling for a good run, and the two of them were in one perfect agreement thundering across the Bois, swerving to avoid statuary and clusters of foliage.

At long last, César's great strength began to wane and Erik eased him to a canter, then a walk. He rewarded César with a pat on his damp muscular neck. Threads of silver peppered the sable of César's mane. Neither of them was young and green anymore.

"Not bad for such a middle-aged pair, eh?" Erik murmured.

"Quite. You should consider racing him. You would rake in purses."

Erik flinched, twisting in the saddle to find a man seated at the lip of a fountain, gloved fingers idly trailing in the water. He reined César around and urged him closer. It would be mannerly to introduce himself, Erik thought as he stroked the Punjab lasso up his sleeve. But killing this anonymous fool and imagining de Chagny in his place would also be very satisfying . . . it had been years since he'd used the lasso, but killing was like riding a bike, one never really lost the knack.

"Forgive me, sir, I did not see you there."

A dry, wheezing chuckle emanated from the man.

"I thought not. You were riding as if the devil himself was at your heels." Erik clenched his jaw. The man's accent was familiar. Had Erik been in a clearer frame of mind, he would remember it . . .

"The hour is a bit late to be out alone, is it not?" even a dullard like this man could hear the veiled threat in Erik's tone. But the dark shapes of his shoulders lifted as he shrugged.

"I've heard tell of a ghost that rides through here some nights on a stallion as black as Death. I came to see for myself."

"Devils and ghosts? Do you truly believe in that mystical rubbish?"

"Frenchmen as a rule are a very excitable bunch; everything is either haunted or in the providence of some obscure saint." The man paused.

"Besides, a wise man taught me the merits of artifice."

Erik went cold, frozen solid by shock.

The man had spoken in Persian. He rose and stepped closer, revealing the pale brown of his skin, the knowing dark eyes, the unbearably familiar face.

"Nadir?"

The ghost smiled.

"Hello, Erik."

Even after ten years, Nadir recognized the queer feeling of having his back to his dark friend, unable to hear the sound of his step and painfully aware that he had left his pistol back at his flat. Under the promise of answering questions out of the night's frigid embrace, Nadir had begun walking. Erik trailed after him like a ghost; the only sound was the heavy, ringing clop of César's steel-shod hooves as he followed his master like a dog. They must have made a strange sight, two men walking single file in the dead of night with a horse trailing after them as if begging for a treat!

Erik was as beleaguered by demons as ever, Nadir could smell it on him. But underneath the pain and anger was a heart as pure as diamond. That purity was why Nadir had risked the shah of Persia's wrath in saving Erik from imprisonment, torture and execution. They had escaped easily enough, and boarded a passenger ship that was also carrying several of a wealthy English noble's prized racehorses. All of their belongings, including Erik's César, were safe aboard a following barge. The subsequent tale was split into halves, and Nadir was eager to hear Erik's side.

He led Erik to the small flat that the remnant of his pension could afford, and Erik stabled César into the communal yard shared by carriage horses. Nadir led on until they were comfortably immured in his tiny study by the fire and the housekeeper brought tea and biscuits.

"You still take lemon with your tea, yes?" Nadir asked. Looking dazed, Erik nodded.

"Could we perhaps partake of something stronger?" he added. Nadir grinned and moved to the decanter and poured brandies for both of them. The Quran forbade the drinking of spirits, but his interpretation had relaxed in some areas during his travels.

The particular music of Erik's voice was not something one forgot, but fresh listening livened Nadir's memory to its subtleties. Was that faint hoarseness from present emotion or an outburst from earlier tonight? What was so terrible that his only outlet was escape? A faint prickle of fear scraped along Nadir's nerves. One of the conditions of his freedom was Erik's solemn promise never to kill again beyond the needs of self-defense. Had he broken his promise? Erik accepted his brandy and threw it back in one swig.

"So . . . resurrection, Daroga. Now that is a feat even I cannot boast of. However did you manage it?" he said. One ankle rested on his opposite knee and he leaned comfortably back in his chair. But for all his relaxed posture, Nadir knew it hid a deadly tension, like a cobra.

"What is the last you remember?" Nadir asked instead.

He caught the icy flash in Erik's eyes but remained implacable. Erik exhaled an irritated breath through his nostrils and replied, "That squalid ship was on fire. I had secured a boat to take the two of us to safety and you decided to run back after a screaming woman. I, of course, as the guardian of your tedious health, ran after you. A beam fell just as I began to enter and knocked me out. I woke in the water. By then, the ship was sinking. I swam to the barge and . . . questioned the captain as to the persons rescued. Without my mask, he found me very convincing." Nadir could only imagine what a soaked, battered and desperate Erik without his mask would do under interrogation circumstances.

"Of the handful remaining, there were three women and two toothless old men. I assumed you were lost." The forlornness of Erik's voice was a moving testament to the significance of their strange friendship and Nadir swallowed the knot in his throat with a sip of brandy.

"My story isn't very interesting, I'm afraid. I did manage to free the trapped woman—Sophia, if you care to know—but by the time we escaped the ship, the barge was already too far away to swim to or hail. We floated on pieces of wreckage until another ship picked us up. Sophia and I parted ways in Sicily." Nadir looked up from his contemplation of his brandy snifter straight into the jagged grey-blue spires of Erik's sharp gaze.

"I did not know where you planned to travel and I had no idea if you had even survived. So I wandered for many years."

Nadir smiled faintly, six words encompassing years of rootless existence in lands populated with pale infidels and their Christian god where a mostly penniless foreigner like himself was at best treated with suspicion and disdain. His years abroad were not entirely wretched, there was much beauty in the world beyond Persia, and Nadir had seen much of it.

"I made my way here about a year ago. I frequent the Opera Populaire often, I hold a season ticket. I was curious to learn of the ghost that haunts that place." A flicker of amusement lit Erik's cold eyes and he laughed, a sound of honey and velvet.

"Right under my nose for years! You would make a better ghost than I, Daroga!" Nadir laughed with him and wondered how long it had been since he laughed. Nadir nibbled on a biscuit.

"So, my friend, what have you been up to? What had you in such a mood tonight?"

Erik bowed his head and was silent for a moment. When at last he lifted his cold eyes to Nadir's, the Daroga was stunned by the raw pain in them.

In his eyes, all the sadness of the world . . .

"Christine," he said.

Allah help him, he's fallen in love.

Time with Raoul flew past like a summer breeze. He was polite and charming, cultured and intelligent. Over a very fine supper, they discussed the merits of particular books and opera, of which he was an avid admirer.

"I must confess a particular relief, Christine," he murmured in a confidential whisper. Christine sipped wine, feeling slightly muddled. She and Meg had only ever snuck sips of champagne at the New Year's balls before Madame shooed them off to bed. This wine slipped into her blood and loosened gravity's hold on her.

"By all means, say on!" she encouraged with a wry grin. Raoul leaned across the table and Christine stifled a gasp as his lips brushed her ear.

"I am very grateful it was you who took the stage tonight. I couldn't bear to hear Signora Guidicelli torture me with another aria." Christine smothered her undignified snorts of laughter in her palm. The corners of Raoul's eyes crinkled into slender fans as he beamed a wide smile.

"Now you sound like Erik!" Christine said.

"And who is Erik?" Raoul drawled, taking a liberal sip from his own glass. Christine froze.

Erik. She was assaulted with the potent vision of Erik pacing behind the mirror, waiting, staring at the clock . . . Christine heard the clock chime and she waited in dawning horror as the clock announced the hour. Midnight! She had meant to be back hours ago! Christine carefully set down her wine glass.

"I am very tired. I would like to return to the Populaire now." The narrow golden bands of Raoul's eyebrows snapped together.

"Of course, Christine. I'll order the carriage." Christine dismissed him with a distracted nod, in an agony of guilt. Her belly clenched in roiling waves of nausea.

She had to get home!

Raoul was the picture of concerned solicitousness as the carriage creaked and bumped down pot-hole ridden streets back to the Populaire. She waved off his concern, insisting that it was merely fatigue, and perhaps the prawns had not agreed with her. He gallantly offered to escort her to the dormitories, but Christine warded him off with the very real threat of what Madame Giry would do to him were he to bring her home at such a late hour.

Christine skittered across the foyer and through the deserted labyrinthine passageways to Madame Giry's chamber. Madame, her half moon spectacles perched on her nose, was reading a novel by the light of a gas lamp. She looked up as Christine burst through the door and dog-eared her page. Christine was convinced that it was impossible to catch Madame unawares, or to shake her unflappable calm.

"Has he come? Is he here?" Christine hissed, so as not to wake Meg, who slept in the next room.

Madame rose and led Christine into her office. A firm gesture toward a chair urged Christine to sit and she obeyed mutely. Madame took a simmering pot of tea from the heat and poured two cups. After years under Madame's tutelage, Christine knew that demands and questions would be met with a tranquil silence and would only prolong the agony of waiting. Christine's knee bounced in a nervous rhythm as she waited for Madame to stir a sugar into her tea and take a contemplative sip.

"You have returned late this evening, my dear." This oblique statement made Christine want to howl in frustration.

"Madame, please! I have to know: did he come looking for me?" Madame softened at the urgency in Christine's tone and patted her hand.

"Who, ma petit cherie? The Vicomte?"

"No, Erik!"

Madame frowned.

"I don't know. I have not seen Erik since the end of the production. I assumed he had come for you." Christine groaned, burying her face in her hands.

"What's wrong, Christine?" Madame demanded sharply. The story tumbled from Christine's lips and she watched in despair as Madame grew paler and more still. She rose, her fingers surreptitiously touching her crucifix, a sure sign of her agitation.

"Go get some rest, Christine. There is enough room in Meg's bed for the two of you."

"Where are you going?" Christine asked.

"To catch a ghost."