Silence & Solitude

by EverspringNative_Gabrina

Summary:

Told through Erik's POV starting with the aftermath of the Opera Disaster, Silence & Solitude follows Christine's rise to stardom, the peak of their relationship, and the downfall of the theater itself.

After Erik has lost everything, he must reluctantly start over, building his own career as a composer while also taking on a role he never expected after a night spent with Christine.

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Frequent, steady updates approx every 14-20 days, maybe sooner

Notes:

I haven't finished writing this one yet, but I'm 20 chapters in (as of August 2025) and plan to upload around once a week. I am expecting this to be approx 40 chapters long.

It's still part of the same series, but you can definitely start here if you don't want to wait for the other stories to be uploaded.

Appreciate feedback and reviews! Thanks for reading!

Chapter 1: Fate

Solitude

 

I was beyond redemption. 

There was not a single part of me that was not broken, but most of the wounds were hidden from the naked eye. The most obvious wound, however, was quite remarkably grotesque in nature... and it had been made astoundingly worse thanks to the brass head of a cane from none other than Madame Giry. 

It was the fractures to my mind and soul that had resulted in an unsightly gash to my right cheek. My faults and mine alone led me to this darkness. Day and night, the wound throbbed like a heartbeat nestled within my cheekbone, steady and strong, a reminder of what I had always been. The blood had dried, the infection to underlying tissue was manageable, but still…

The pain resonated. There had always been pain. Always. Every second of every day, the aching had never abandoned me. It was the only constant in my miserable existence, but after the Opera House disaster, after a choice had been made, the torment consumed me day and night. 

I had been rejected. After years of being Christine Daae's beloved angel, I had fallen from grace. The woman who had laughed at my jests and smiled when I praised her triumphs had easily discarded my affection once she saw my cursed face. 

No matter how I attempted to lead my thoughts in one direction or another, the only path made available to me was one of absolute solitude. Regret has tethered me here, to this agony that I alone created. 

I was made to suffer and I had done it remarkably well for three decades, but I had grown weary of night terrors and memories so vile they almost seemed impossible to believe I had lived through such horrors. My time spent with Christine had been a bandage covering the past. When I listened to her sing, the past did not exist. When she trusted me with her secrets, when she spoke of her aching feet after a day of rehearsals, the world stilled. She was everything. She was my everything.

And I was nothing.

The truth of what I had always been and what I would always be was crippling. 

For days I had felt as though I were suffocating, cast deep within dark waters, desperate for the glimmer of the surface far above my head. I struggled, desperate for a breath to fill my lungs, but knowing I was destined to drown here. Everything hurt from the roots of my thin hair to my hollow chest.  

And yet, despite all of my pain, I could not manage to die. My heart continued to beat despite its broken and miserable state.  I closed my eyes and thought of her. Always her. Forever her. 

Christine. My beloved, my cherished Christine. 

She did not spare a thought for me, I knew. I didn’t deserve a single second of her affection. How easily she had discarded me, same as the rest. I should have been accustomed to rejection, to being unwanted, but I was not. It was a cut made deeper time and again, a blister broken open to bleed, a bruise made wider, blacker with each strike. It was agony that defies description. It was my fate. 

I did not ask for this torment. For years I attempted to live in seclusion, but loneliness ate away at me and I foolishly sought more. All I had ever desired was a seat at the table, to be given a chance to prove I was not worthless. 

But I was viewed as a nightmare, a monster so vile my own mother and father locked me away in their cellar. They provided me with a headstone well before food and shelter. Love was never a consideration. 

Redemption was out of my reach, but I had always desired the unattainable.

And so I trudged forth, same as I had always done, living when death would not claim me. 

 

Chapter 2: Reluctantly Starting Over

Summary:

Days after the Opera House disaster

CH 2

 

Death came for me the moment Christine turned and walked away with her fiance, but I was too foolish to submit. I have always fought my fate, from my very first breath, from the first time my father beat me to unconsciousness, to the time the Shah of Shah’s daughter ordered I be put to death. 

Physical pain I had always tolerated out of necessity. Odd how I had been bloodied and bruised thousands of times, but the memory faded and the sensation was forgotten. Humiliation, however, and the fear that accompanied the lashes I accepted or the beatings I endured--those I remembered with greater clarity than I ever desired. My flesh did not recall the bite of a whip, but my mind had cataloged every insult and harsh word. In the back of my mind, I have memorized the expressions of dozens upon dozens of spectators to my suffering. They were all the same; thirsty for more and never sated. They wanted the bloodshed and tears of a monster and frequently they received the bloodshed and sobs of a child confined to a cage. 

Fear has roused me in the middle of the night and left me gasping for air more times than I could count.  Sometimes, when I sat alone at the empty dining room table, I caught myself all too late inhaling a sharp breath as a memory stalked me. 

“Meg Giry,” I said under my breath once I realized I was not alone in the house. 

The mouse of a girl hid behind the doorway much as she had spent her life hiding behind her mother’s skirts. As expected, she turned away once I said her name and pretended she was sorting through dry goods from the market. 

I could not blame her for blatantly staring. Her mother befriended a beast long ago, well before she was born, and the creature who once lurked in shadows and created havoc in the theater sat twenty paces away at the head of the table, a streak of light from the setting sun blazing through a slit in the curtains to illuminate the creature of nightmares.

I sincerely doubted she saw a man sitting hunched over a cold cup of a tea. Much like everyone else, she saw something less than human, something that was alive that should not have survived past birth. 

Meg had been on the stage when my mask was removed and chaos ensued. From the corner of my eye I had seen her gasp in horror, same as the rest of the dancers gathered together, stage left. Her reaction was not unexpected, but given how many years I have known her mother, I admit the repulsion in her gaze was difficult to process. Not once in her eighteen years had I ever harmed Little Meg. Not once. A dead mouse may or may not have found its way into her ballet slipper now and then, but nothing nefarious had ever befallen her, despite how often she screamed as though she were being murdered when a set piece fell or a note floated down from the rafters. 

Time escaped me, and I thought it was perhaps now four or five days since the Opera House disaster. It could have been a century later and Meg Giry would have looked at me with the same contempt. I stared at the polished dining room table and felt the heat of her glare on my unmasked face. I had half the mind to inform her that very large crowds once paid a considerable fee to view such an oddity, but as it was she jumped every time I shifted my weight or reached for my tea and I tired of such predictable actions. The girl was hardly a decent actress on the stage during a performance. It seemed a shame most of her theatrics took place in rehearsals or in her mother’s apartment. 

Honestly, I could not blame her for staring at the wound. The scar covering the right side of my face was reason enough to gawk, but the fresh injury--complete with swelling and deep bruising--made me cringe when I dared to look in the mirror. My mask did not fit properly due to the contusions, and so, in the dining room with the curtains drawn, I sat with my mask on the table, the empty eye staring up at my hideous visage.

I scraped my fingernail against the table where the light pierced through the opening in the curtains. I couldn’t recall the last time I had ventured out during daylight. I felt as though I should have missed the warmth on my flesh and the way the bright light momentarily hurt my eyes, but the sun did not miss me and I could not muster the strength to care for anything or anyone.  

My stomach rumbled, the sound so loud that Meg turned and stared at me again. Four days had passed since I had eaten, and despite the noise my belly produced, I had no desire to consume anything at all. I had grown accustomed to going without.

As a boy I had often been denied basic necessities. I drank water from a barrel that collected rain, I stole a blanket off a clothesline in the middle of the night and took food from the back of a tavern or the church that pitied the less fortunate. My earliest childhood memories were filled with thieving and being punished for my desire to survive.

Another growl filled the silence. Meg continued to stare and I turned toward her. There was no longer contempt in her blue eyes as she looked at me, her gaze pinned first on my ruined cheek. I saw an expression I hated more than her contempt: I saw pity.

Several days had passed since her mother had struck me twice in the face with her cane. Two swift, painful blows to the cheek had been issued in an alleyway several blocks from the theater with smoke and chaos in the air and dozens of frightened people darting past, far too consumed with their own trepidation to notice three figures in the shadows. The bells rang, an unnecessary warning to the citizens of Paris who could quite clearly see the flames and plumes of smoke clouding the night sky. It billowed from the windows, doors and rooftop and choked the city, but the burning Opera House was the least of my worries. Madeline Giry was far more intimidating than uncontrollable flames.

Madeline had started by first beating her fists against my chest until she had me backed into the wall. She screamed at the top of her lungs, her breath hot against my face, the spit from her words wet against my flesh. When I made no reply, she grabbed her cane and held it up, her eyes filled with rage.  

I had made no attempt to shield myself from Madeline’s assault. After the second strike, I stood motionless, my eyes clouded with unshed tears, my lips quivering like a frightened child burdened with emotion. I wanted Madeline to hit me a third time and a fourth, to continue until she bludgeoned me to death. It was as much as I deserved. Quite frankly, I was surprised it had taken so long for her to finally break.

But Meg, frightened, quiet, childish Meg Giry, boldly stepped in front of her mother and reached for the head of the cane. My blood smeared across the palm of her delicate hand as she stopped her mother from continuing her assault. 

“That’s enough,” Meg shrieked. “He’s already bleeding. You'll blind him or kill him.”

Quite frankly, I was surprised Meg Giry did not want me dead. 

Our eyes had met for the first time since she was a child. I blinked away the tears and studied her, this fragile waif of a girl, and realized she was stronger than she looked. In her right hand she held my mask, which I had left beneath the Opera House. In her left hand, she had a handkerchief, which she held out to me. 

“Take it,” she had offered quite firmly. If she said anything else, I had no recollection. My mind refused to record another second of chaos and misery from that night. 

Half a week had passed since that moment in the alley. My mask was still quite useless, same as the man who had worn it for years. Meg Giry had gone from my unexpected defender to keeping a safe distance again. Perhaps she regretted stopping her mother from beating me to death with her cane.

Under different circumstances, perhaps we could have been on friendly terms, but my appearance prevented such arrangements throughout my life and I expected no different when it came to Madeline’s only child. I had been alive for well over three decades and only one person had befriended me--and that same person, the only individual I had consulted and confided in since my youth--had left me with a deep gash to my right cheek. 

Meg Giry looked me in the eye and frowned. I hadn’t realized I had been staring back at her, my mind pulled to darker crevices. She looked away first and busied herself once more while I reached for my cold cup of tea and took a less than desirable sip.

I hadn’t seen her mother since the previous day. Madeline had kept her distance from the moment she unlocked the door to the property she had purchased in my name with my funds. Once she mumbled under her breath that the furnished bedroom on the upper floor was mine, she had walked away down the hall with her daughter at her heels, still dressed in her costume from the stage right down to her ballet slippers.

I had remained at the bottom of the stairs, alone in the shadows. Meg’s ballet slippers and her legs were splattered in mud from running through the streets. I stood wondering when she would notice the condition of her shoes and wanted very much to offer her some type of compensation for ruining them. The slippers, however, were quite possibly the lowest item on the list of what I had ruined. She would not take anything from me, not willingly.  

I had a great deal of sympathy for Meg. In the theater I was often five cellars removed from her life, aside from the occasional visit to the apartment she shared with her mother or the times our paths crossed when I roamed the theater for performances and rehearsals. Now she shared a much smaller space with a ghost. The rare sighting was suddenly frequent and largely unexpected.  

I turned my cup of tea and listened to it scrape against the saucer. It was a delicate cup, one painted with flowers and ivy and part of a larger set I could see through the doorway from the dining room to the kitchen. Madeline had not said why she purchased the property or how long ago she had begun transforming the house into a home, but from what I had seen, she had put quite a bit of work into making certain it was not simply livable, but comfortably furnished.

The fabric walls were tasteful, the floors and wood work in the study and my bedroom perfectly polished and intricately crafted. The bed linens were of the highest quality and the pillows--all four of them--luxuriously soft and filled with down. 

Miserably I wondered if Madeline had purchased the property for me to live with Christine after she accepted my offer of marriage, but the other two bedrooms with their wardrobes and beds were replicas of the rooms within Madeline and Meg’s shared apartment told me otherwise. 

Madeline had purchased the house with certainty that I would fail to win Christine’s heart. This home was a consolation gift, a grand bandage meant to soothe my wounded ego and shattered heart. She wanted me to leave the theater and Christine and live removed from my most damnable mistake. 

But I had no desire to live. Each breath was an inconvenience, each pang of hunger a reminder that my body craved something I didn’t wish to give it. What was the use? The opera I had spent years toiling over had been a disaster and the woman I would have died for had shown me that my existence meant nothing to her and I would perish in vain. No one wanted me, not as a lover and not as a friend. My life served no purpose. Loneliness had become quite taxing, a burden I no longer wanted to carry. 

Without thinking I touched my right cheek and grimaced, my flesh radiating with a fresh wave of pain. I gritted my teeth and clenched my fists as I waited for the sensation to pass. 

Pain was little more than a reminder that I could not have what I desired, not even death. 

Take your life. No one will notice your absence.

The words echoing loudly through my mind were not my own. It was Christine’s voice I heard, smooth and delicious despite its cruel message. 

Tears threatened. My God, how Christine had tormented and tempted me over the years. Some days she was as perfect as a woman could be, smiling and laughing as she sat perched on a pillow in the chapel, eager to start her lessons. Other days, when she struggled with her voice and emotion got the best of her, she said I was a horrible, careless teacher who wished for her demise. 

You are no angel of music. If you were an angel, I would have become principal already! You are an evil, evil spirit!

She would burst from the chapel, the clatter of brass candle holders crashing onto the stone floor in her wake. Every time she left frustrated, I would prepare to grovel for her forgiveness when she returned to the chapel days later. Please, Christine, I beg for your mercy. Grant me another opportunity to prove I am worthy of you. 

Eventually Christine would come around and inevitably she would ask when I would allow her to meet me face-to-face.

My lifetime of nightmares had been replaced by dreams of her standing before me, no mirror separating the two of us, no barriers preventing our hands from touching. Every sensation, the rapid beat of my heart and the butterflies in my stomach, made the dreams seem like sweet, forbidden reality. I watched her features soften as she looked up at me, her nervous expression breaking into a welcomed smile. She would reach for me, her fingers entwined with mine as she stepped closer. My angel , she would whisper and I would nod, grateful for the title and the acceptance she showed me. At last I would be unchained from the hell that had imprisoned me for so long. She was to be my freedom, my salvation. 

If time could be retracted, if moments could be undone, I would have remained forever in the shadows. One drop of her love had been more addicting than morphine. I knew from the first time her delicate fingers rested in my gloved hand that it would not be enough to simply see her once. I wanted her in every way a hot-blooded man desired a woman, but I also very much desired to be a gentleman. 

Animals took what they wanted and made no apologies, but I did not want to be an animal. Christine was no conquest to me, no notch in a belt or mindless attempt at a rut. She had been the opportunity for a future, to cast aside the night and step into the daylight. She was afternoon walks in the park. She was a cup of coffee at a cafe in June. She was the warmth of a stolen kiss in a snowstorm. Every moment of a content life rested with her acceptance. She would save me from my fate.

But fate would not relinquish its hold on me. Fate was a theater filled with patrons and armed guards. Fate was the doors barred and rifles loaded. My fate was on the stage, Christine before me, our lives hanging in the balance when she tore my mask from my face and exposed me for what I was: a monster. In a heartbeat I was drained before the crowd, my wretched face revealed, my hairpiece flung nearly into the orchestra pit. The shrieks did not  compare to the screaming in my head. 

 I didn’t expect Christine Daae to be my undoing. 

Why did you betray me, Christine? Why?

 

Chapter 3: Angel of Music

My face was bleeding again. My shirt bore the resemblance to a ghastly murder, but I was, regretfully, still very much alive. Two hours had passed since I’d taken up residence in the dining room. My cup of tea was empty and the sun had set. Meg had ventured further into the kitchen where her humming was accompanied by a chaotic orchestration of clanging pots and pans and the occasional curse as a spoon fell to the floor or rolling pin toppled off the table. 

In four days, Meg had not uttered a single word to me and I had become a mute in her presence. Quite frankly there was nothing I could say that would make Meg Giry see me as anything but the villain in Christine’s life. They had been close since Christine had arrived in the theater as an orphan following the long illness and consequent death of her beloved father. 

I turned toward the doorway, wishing to speak to Meg, to offer some sort of explanation or apology, but her back was to me and my thoughts abandoned me. 

This was to be my life: living in the same house, in very close proximity to others, while still remaining a ghost. A shiver rattled through me as I considered this new loneliness. Perhaps it was deserved after all I had done, but that thought made it no easier to accept.

 

OoO

Christine had been around the same age as I’d been when Madeline freed me from the traveling fair and hid me away beneath the Opera House. Hearing Christine wail inside the chapel made the hairs on my arms stand on end as she was inconsolable in her grief. Every day she lit a candle and prayed for her father to return. She couldn’t bear to be alone. She missed skipping stones by the sea and collecting shells. She begged for her father to tell her one more story or to read to her by the window in the attic and leave her a treat by the bedside table.

“Kiss me on the forehead, Papa, tell me to have sweet dreams.”

Her words broke my already fragile heart. My father had been immensely cruel to me. There had been no kisses or embraces, no kind words or moments of affection. My mother outright ignored me while my father beat me without mercy. I had made many desperate attempts to earn their affection, but each time they cast their deformed, unwanted child aside.

But Christine had known the unconditional love of a doting parent, and that made her loss all the more tragic. She spoke of the tender memories she had shared with her father, who had raised her alone in Sweden. From what I gathered, her mother had died when Christine was an infant and she had no memories of the woman who had birthed her, but her father had more than made up for the loss. Christine fell asleep in her father’s arms while he read to her when she was a young girl and he spoiled her with gifts when she was older. He had not simply been her father, he had been her closest friend. Their relationship had been more than I ever dared to dream of having with my own parents, and when she spoke of how much she loved her dear father, I realized that I still wished for my parents to love me, despite the fact that they would not.       

Day after day for months her prayers went unanswered. The sorrow she felt mirrored a lifetime of my own grief. She did not belong in the theater as an orphan and I had not belonged anywhere either. I felt a deep connection to her loneliness, to the sorrow that grew like roots from a tree, gnarled and stretching out.

The love and loss Christine experienced reminded me of the brief time I had spent with my uncle, who had rescued me from my own parents. I had loved my uncle Alak more than I had ever loved myself. While my father had struck me, my uncle had placed his hand on my shoulder and looked me in the eye. My mother had not spoken directly to me a single time that I could recall, but my uncle had shared many stories with me. Perhaps my uncle’s kindness could have untied the knot of cruelty my parents had bound me in, but unfortunately my time with him was brief, and the taste of belonging I had experienced left me with a hunger for more that could not be sated.   

The aftermath of my uncle’s sudden passing devastated me, and the dark thoughts I experienced as a boy flooded my thoughts as Christine prayed for her father, 

“I want to die so we can be together,” Christine had said one cold, rainy day in early spring. There had been a draft in the chapel due to a crack in the window facing the street that had not been repaired. I wasn’t certain if it was her admission or the draft that made me shiver.  “I have a knife under my pillow. I stole it from the kitchen several nights ago. Please, Papa, give me a sign so that I may go to you.”

“Christine, you cannot consider such actions,” I had blurted out from the servant’s hall that ran behind the chapel. The words were not meant to be spoken aloud, but they could not be retracted. 

Through the floor-length mirror beside the altar filled with glowing candles, I saw Christine sit up straighter, her dark eyes wide and filled with trepidation. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and I was certain I had frightened her terribly. At any moment, she would flee the disembodied voice and never return. 

“Why not?” she questioned.

“The world would be dim if not for your light.”  

“The angel,” Christine whispered, lips curling into a smile, the first I’d ever seen from her. “He speaks to me at last.”

The angel? 

I took a careful step back, pressing myself to the wall, unsure of what I should do or say. I had been a monster, a devil, and a feared half-man, half-beast. I had never been likened to an angel. Her words intrigued me. 

“Are you still here?” Christine asked when I said nothing in return. 

“I am,” I said at last, moving toward the mirror where I could see her better. 

“The Angel of Music,” Christine said with a great deal of confidence. She glowed with an inner flame, her sallow complexion suddenly bright and cheery as though she were filled with forgotten mirth. I hadn’t realized how miserably sick and depressed she had been for months. The dying young woman was suddenly brought back from certain demise and I had been her hero. For the first time in my life, I was useful. “You have answered my prayers at last, just as Papa promised. My dear angel, you have saved me from my fate.”

In that moment, Christine had saved me from my own fate--at least temporarily. 

We met frequently after that, at her insistence. Christine told me about rehearsals and I listened without interruption despite often attending both rehearsals and performances and being well aware of what took place. I cherished each word she spoke and interjected only when necessary. She shared with me the most intimate details of her thoughts, and when she yawned and I instructed her to retire for the night, she would offer a sleepy, heavy-lidded smile, extinguish the candle she lit for her father, and blow her angel a kiss. 

“I will speak to you tomorrow, my angel,” Christine said each evening. 

“Sleep well, Christine,” I replied as I watched her leave, grateful for our budding, unexpected friendship. 

I didn’t love her, not romantically, and that is the honest truth. Much like my relationship with Madeline Giry, I simply looked forward to the company she provided and the distraction from my mundane life with our visits. Being that she was considerably younger and seemingly quite sheltered for her first sixteen years, I found her interests quite refreshing if not somewhat amusing. She was naive enough to believe that an angel had come to her and I was willing to play along for her sake. 

Christine treated me as a confidant. She would rush into the chapel, lock the door behind her, and take a deep breath before she told me everything. She thought one of the patron’s eldest son’s, Emilio, to be immensely charming and strikingly handsome, but he was interested in a very plain-looking older woman named Bernice Buckingshire, heiress to the Buckingshire Glass fortune in Birmingham. Christine was correct in that Miss Buckingshire was a homely looking woman, but more than one young man had nearly walked into a pole or into the orchestra pit on account of her voluptuous figure. The woman was the embodiment of a perfect marble statue--or so I had overheard from the shadows. 

“She’s frumpy and much too old for him,” Christine groused. 

I grunted. Miss Buckingshire was twenty-two years of age and not the least bit frumpy. She was hardly an old crone, especially considering I was six years older than the woman in question.

“How old is the boy?” I asked. 

“He is not a boy.”

“My apologies,” I said tightly. “How old is the man that you adore?”

“Emilio is seventeen years of age and I do not adore him.” A year older than Christine, who snorted in disgust of the handsome younger patron’s son and homely Miss Buckingshire stealing glances across the aisles. “That old cow must be thirty, at least. It will never work in his favor.” 

“How terrible,” I dryly said. 

“You wouldn’t understand,” Chrstine sighed. “Angels aren’t…”

Her voice trailed away, but I was at once intrigued. 

“Finish your sentence,” I ordered. 

“Do angels fall in love?” she asked. 

Being that I was not an angel, I had no idea about the romantic notions of an immortal, winged creature. But why wouldn’t they fall in love? Angles were beautiful, powerful entities; surely they felt something that could be considered love. More than likely, they had more heightened, pure sensations akin to hearing the first notes of a familiar melody. Angels experienced more than mortal love. It entwined with their hearts and souls, trickled into their blood and the marrow of their bones. 

I studied Christine for a moment through the mirror. We had been speaking almost nightly for more than three years and I realized that she had become a very important part of my life.  I knew her favorite color was green, same as the color of my eyes. She loved roses, but only deep red because they smelled the best. Under her bed she had a small box her father had given her where she hid sweets Madame Giry forbade her to eat. 

“Angels have a great capacity for love,” I answered at last. I, too, had the ability to love deeply, with every fiber of my heart and soul, but the strength of my affection was not reciprocated. My heart sang a melody that had no echo. 

Christine clasped her hands. “My Angel of Music, do you love me?” she asked, her tone almost teasing in nature. 

Christine, of course, could not see me through the glass, but I smiled at her and my heart soared at the thought of loving her. She was dear to me, a remedy to loneliness I had not expected to ever find.  “Do you doubt my affection for you?” I asked lightly. 

She grinned. “I suppose not. You were sent from heaven for me and for me alone.”

Before I could reply, the chapel door swung open and Madeline Giry marched in, dark skirts swirling around her and black hair braided and piled onto the top of her head. Her expression was harsh, such was the case when she disciplined her ballet girls. “Christine,” she scolded, putting her keys into her skirt pocket. “I’ve looked everywhere for you, girl.”

Immediately Christine was on her feet. She looked from Madame to the mirror and back at her surrogate mother. “Madame, I—”

“To whom were you speaking with?” Madeline asked, her eyes narrowed as she glanced at the mirror.

“No one,” Christine said quietly.

“Christine,” Madeline pressed. 

“The angel,” Christine answered matter of factly. “Sent by father. His voice...it soothes me.”

Madeline’s hardened expression softened. “Oh, my sweet girl. Go on to bed now. We have an early day tomorrow, remember?”

“Yes, Madame,” Christine said, bowing her head. 

Christine glanced back at the mirror one last time before she skittered out of the chapel. Madeline remained for a long moment after. She blew out the candles and rested one hand on top of the other on the head of her cane. 

“Erik,” she said sharply. 

My breath hitched. It should not have surprised me that Madeline assumed I was in the servants’ hall, but I was quite taken aback by her addressing me outright. 

“Christine is a very fragile young woman with a vivid imagination,” Madeline continued. “She has suffered greatly in her young life. Whatever it is you have told her, I ask you to end the games.”

Her insinuation was an outright and damnable insult. My conversations with Christine were not a game. We enjoyed each other’s company and our frequent conversations staunch the outpouring of grief we mutually shared. 

“Erik, these false pretenses—”

“Have I not suffered as well, Madame?” I questioned. “In ways you cannot even begin to fathom?” 

I didn’t wait for her to answer me. It had been months, perhaps even a year since Madeline and I had spoken and I had no desire for her to lecture me like a child. 

Turning on my heel, I stalked down the servants’ hall and into the arched corridor that led to the cellar stairway, slamming the door behind me so that Madeline would know I was no longer giving her an audience. 

I plucked my waiting lantern from the wall and stormed down five flights of stairs into the absolute dark of my lakeside home. My heart thudded against my ribcage, hands trembling with rage. A game indeed, Madame, a game indeed. 

Christine needed her angel. This I knew with great certainty. And with an equal amount of certainty, as I stood in the dark, cool cavern five cellars beneath the Opera House, I knew that I needed her more. I was made to be with her, to offer my services and be there when she needed me. 

My suffering, my lifelong suffering, had been a trial to prove I was worthy of her affection.  I had undoubtedly passed the test. I had endured cruelty the likes of which no other had experienced and Christine’s affection was my reward.

“I am your Angel of Music,” I whispered. 

Notes:

In most retellings of The Phantom, he's middle-aged. In my version, he's been at the Opera Populaire since the age of 12 and in this chapter he's in his late twenties, so he's around 12 years older than Christine instead of a 30 year age gap.

Chapter 4: Ghost to Angel

 

Christine’s vivid imagination did not go unnoticed by the other dancers in the ballet. Indeed, the stagehands, seamstresses, principal actors, and the members of the orchestra were all aware of her fascination with the ethereal--namely the angel who had come to care for her on behalf of her father.

“An angel?” one of the older dancers snorted while the group of young ladies sat in a circle off-stage, braiding each other’s hair and sharing gossip.

They truly bored me to the brink of tears, but their meaningless conversations were somewhat more entertaining than sitting alone in front of the organ for hours on end--particularly when I could sit in the flies above their collective heads unnoticed and overhear all of the local gossip. The ballet troupe knew everything from who slept with who, which patron lost his fortune, which woman intended to leave her husband for a better prospect, and which man had already drawn up papers to divorce his unfaithful wife. Sometimes the greatest drama took place off the stage. In fact, most of the drama took place off stage and I shamelessly listened to every word. At some point, it could prove useful, I reasoned.   

“The angel. My father promised me,” Christine told the gaggle of ballet dancers.

“Why would your father send an angel for you?” another girl asked.

“Because when my father lay dying and I begged him to stay with me, he promised the Angel of Music would come to me one day.”

My breath caught in my throat. Unbidden memories rushed to the forefront of my mind. I thought of my uncle swiftly fading before my eyes and how I had dug his grave with a small shovel and my bare hands. I had begged him to stay with me, and when the light had faded from his eyes, I wanted to die with him. No angel had come for me. I had been twelve years of age at the time of his death and the devil had come for me. 

What I would not have given to have been promised a savior. Perhaps I would have greeted each morning with more hope than dread. But the days had been long and certainly no angel had come for me. A man named Garouche had dragged me away in chains and forced me into a cage. He had branded me a beast-child, a wicked and morally corrupt being that lacked a soul. Within months, I believed his words and hated myself for being the product of the devil. The sentiment stayed with me long after I killed the bastard and escaped. 

“Who is the Angel of Music?” the first dancer asked. 

Christine momentarily faltered. “He is...he is a great master.”

“Of course,” the second one said. The other girls erupted into tittering laughter. 

Seated beside Christine sat Meg Giry. “The Angel of Music is real,” she said. 

I clutched the railing and leaned forward, surprised by Meg’s words. 

“You’ve seen him?” The first dancer arched a brow. 

Meg’s bold words were followed by a return to her normal timid voice. “I haven’t seen him…”

“No one sees angels,” Christine said. “You hear their voices.”

The circle of dancers exchanged looks of uncertainty. 

“What does he say?” one of the younger girls asked. 

I fully expected Christine to say that the Angel of Music agreed with her that plain-looking Bernice Buckingshire was an old hag and Emilio Von Erchstein must have been bewitched to give her the time of day. But she did not waste words on petty comments. 

Christine climbed to her feet and crossed her arms, eyeing the other dancers with a stone-cold expression. “He will bless me with his gifts for music.”

“Prove it,” the first dancer said. 

Christine’s hands balled into fists at her sides. “I will,” she vowed. “You will all see.”

From the rafters I took a deep breath and silently cursed. My new moniker was proving to be far more than I had bargained for, but as I watched Christine storm across the stage in her tutu, I could not bear the thought of abandoning her. She had spent far too much time in mourning and now was an opportunity for her to thrive. Whatever the Angel of Music was to share with her, I would willingly give. I was hers, heart and soul, and I thought she was mine. 

 

OoO

 

That evening, long after supper had been served and most of the other performers had retired for the night or slipped out of the dormitories for an evening out on the town, Christine sat in the chapel with a plate of sweets. Consequently, I had a similar after supper assortment of cakes wrapped inside a napkin that I enjoyed from the servants’ hall as I sat on a stool that was used to prop the door further down the corridor open when the maids beat the dust and dirt from the rugs and hung up the laundry--as well as when they took a swig of wine from a bottle they hid beneath the steps. 

“Angel, are you here?” Christine asked as she sucked chocolate off her fingers. 

“Of course I am,” I answered. 

She smiled. “My infallible companion. Are you bound to the chapel?” 

“I am not.”

“Do you come and go as you please, then?”

“I do.”

Christine paused and frowned. “What if I call to you and you do not answer?”

“I will never be far from you,” I promised. “If I do not answer, be assured I am near but preoccupied with other duties.” 

“You are bound to me, then, my Angel of Music?” 

Her possessive inquiry made my heart unexpectedly stutter. All of my life I had wanted to be claimed by another, to be needed and wanted. Christine had no idea how much I wished to be valued.  “We are bound to each other, Christine.”

She sat up a little straighter, her cheeks flushed and eyes wide. I thought for a moment I had frightened her, but at last she nodded and smiled. “Does the angel favor a particular instrument?” 

“The violin,” I answered without hesitation. It had long been my favorite instrument, although I had taught myself to play a number of instruments from the time I had first entered the Opera House, the violin felt like an extension of myself. 

Christine’s expression turned placid, as though she were in the middle of a pleasant daydream. “I should have known.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Papa truly sent you to watch over me,” she said with an airy sigh. “He played the most beautiful music on his violin in our seaside cottage.”

I unwrapped the piece of cake I had taken from the kitchen and ate the small morsels first. “Describe the home to me,” I requested, mostly so that I could indulge in cake without pausing to swallow or wipe crumbs from my lips. 

“The old house on the edge of the Baltic Sea had a bedroom in the attic. When the fire was lit in the hearth, it was the warmest place in the whole house. Sometimes, when the wind rattled the shutters and moaned beneath the doors, I’d hide under the bed from the monsters in the woods. They would come and scrape their bony fingers down the windows and pick at the locks until I swore the doors would come off their hinges.”

I self-consciously stared at my own long, bony fingers. I had the hands of a woodland monster frightening children to hide under the bed. I curled my free hand into a fist, hiding my terrible traits. 

“Papa would tell me frightening stories of the beasts that hunted in the north. Ugly, yellowed flesh and red eyes with tangled wisps of hair and black teeth. Wood devils, he called them, that moved like the living dead. They were not afraid of anything or anyone.”

I stared at my shoes as she spoke. Terrible dead creatures, living corpses of nightmares stalking through the night. Devils… I was not the angelic being she thought I was, not physically. If Christine saw me, she would know I was not an angel. I was as far from an angel as any living man could be. 

“Except for music,” Christine said. “They do not care for any sort of merriment, and so Papa would play his violin for me in the attic. The wind blew, the house groaned as though the monsters would tear off the shingles and flatten the house, but we were always safe.”

“I am glad you were safe,” I said at last, but her fanciful story left me feeling numb and incompetent. 

“Would you play for me?” Christine asked. 

I stared sadly at her though the mirror and touched my mask, the barrier that hid the monster. In her heart, she thought of me as an angel, but if she gazed upon me, she would see a creature from childhood nightmares. 

“I will play for you if you wish,” I replied. 

“Angel?” Christine said suddenly. “Are you unwell? You sound...different.”

“You wish for me to bless you with my gift of music?” I asked. 

Her expression sobered. “I...I do,” she said warily. “You heard me this afternoon?” She started to stand, but reconsidered and sat once more. “I suppose you hear everything, don’t you? Every word I speak aloud and in my head. Angels see and hear everything, don’t they?”

“We do.”

She lowered her gaze like a scolded child. “Then you know what they say about me.”

“Some of it,” I lied. I’d overheard far more than I dared to admit.

Unexpectedly, Christine’s eyes glistened with tears. “Do you think I am mad? A spoiled brat who cannot accept her father’s death? A...a burden who is allowed to perform in the theater simply because of who my father was?”

“You are none of those things, Christine,” I said gently. 

“How do you know for certain?” 

“People are cruel to those they do not understand,” I said truthfully. “Some cannot see true beauty. They are blind to what you and I see.”

Her bottom lip quivered and she sniffled. “It is difficult to see beauty anywhere when you are surrounded by sadness.”

My throat tightened. For as long as I could recall, the world had been dead and gray around me. I knew immense sorrow and pain, but beauty had always eluded me until I discovered music. Melody unfurled a new splendor that was within my reach. Notes did not turn from me and curse my appearance; I appreciated sound and it came to me naturally. 

“You do not always see beauty,” I said at last. “You can hear it as well.”

She perked up and dried her eyes with her sleeve. “I suppose that is true.”

“Of course it is true. Your angels deems it so.” 

At last she chuckled. “Did you know Papa?” she asked. 

“Not as you did,” I said. It wasn’t truly a lie, but it was not the truth, either. 

I knew of Gustave Daae, the violinist who had been somewhat of a scoundrel when it came to the ladies. He had engaged in several sordid affairs--one of which led to the conception of his only child and that had ultimately driven the lovers out of France and into Sweden two or three years before I had traveled into Paris with a band of gypsies at the age of twelve. Somewhere in the cellar her father’s precious violin was amongst my musical collection. It had been one of my first discoveries upon claiming the fifth cellar as my home. 

“Are there other angles in your family?” she asked. 

“There are not,” I answered. 

“You are alone?” she questioned. 

 I gazed at her through the mirror and smiled. Part of me wanted to tell Christine that there were worse fates than being alone, but I had lived in solitude for so long that I had forgotten what it was like to travel from one town to the next as an oddity. My time in Persia haunted me in nightmares, but in waking moments I rarely thought of the palace and the Shah of Shahs. 

“I am not alone anymore, Christine. I have you.” 

Christine finished the rest of her pastry. “We have each other.”

There was nothing I wanted more than to be accepted by someone. I took one last bite of cake and wrapped up the remainder to eat later, when I returned to my lakeside home and committed my emotions to music. My heart beat with newfound purpose, my soul ignited in a way that I did not think was possible. 

We parted ways for the evening, and as I took the stairs two at a time down into the darkness, I felt a sensation I had not felt in many years: acceptance.

No, this was something more than acceptance. Stronger. More powerful. Dare I say it was...love?

I smiled to myself. 

As long as I stayed hidden, Christine Daae would love me. 

 

Chapter 5: Flattering Child

Notes:

Split between the present and the past, Erik's life taking up residence with the Girys and taking on the role of the Angel of Music

Ch 5

 

Meg Giry hummed to herself while she made supper. I could hear her from my bedroom on the upper floor as I sat with a blank sheet of paper on my desk and attempted to bleed creativity out of myself. 

Music had abandoned me, which was as much as I deserved. Frustrated, I reached for my cup of tea and realized it was still sitting on the dining room table where I had left it hours earlier. 

How utterly useless I had become--or perhaps how useless I had always been, but failed to realize all of my shortcomings. I considered crumpling up the piece of paper, but I had already discarded two dozen sheets, some filled with music and others with a few notes and scribbles across the top, and I was running out of paper with no way to replenish my supply without asking Madeline to run an errand.

Hundreds upon hundreds of compositions had gone to waste beneath the Opera House. My life’s work had been destroyed, and I wondered why I had bothered to leave my lakeside home rather than be put out of my misery. It would have only taken a single bullet through the heart or to my skull, and the theater had been filled with men eager to pull the trigger. 

Or perhaps they would have pulled me limb from limb, yanking me apart for their own sick amusement. 

Being taken alive and put on trial had been my greatest fear. After years of my youth spent as an oddity in a cage, I had no desire to be treated as such again, and I knew given my notoriety as a ghost, the crowds would have wanted to view the man who had terrorized a theater and a young soprano. From the first light of dawn until dusk the citizens of Paris would have filed past my cell to see me chained and awaiting execution. My mask would have been removed, my hairpiece discarded, and my fine clothing ripped and muddied. They would have made me into an animal again, a disgusting beast that would be hanged by the neck and then dissected for science. Or perhaps put on display for a second time until my corpse began to rot and the novelty wore off. 

And Christine? Would she have come to see me one last time? Would she have spit in the face of her former angel or would she have wept for me?

The house became eerily quiet. Meg and Charles were together as always, doing whatever it was they did and Madeline was either mute in her bedroom or out for the afternoon. I had no desire to slip down the stairs and search for her whereabouts. 

Instead, I sat in my room alone and imagined what a final meeting between myself and Christine would have been like before I was executed for my mortal sins. 

I thought of Christine sometimes as remorseful when she saw me for the final time, begging for my forgiveness as she reached for me though the cell bars. I would reach out to her as well, but the chains prevented me from grasping her graceful hands, and my fingers would be snapped back just out of reach. It seemed like the sort of agony I deserved, so close to what I desired, but never close enough. 

We would be parted forever, but I would have loved her for an eternity if given the chance.  

In other moments, when my mood had gone black, I envisioned her on the arm of her fiance, her dark eyes cruel and filled with malice. They would come to mock me, grateful that the monster would be sent back to hell at last, unable to harm anyone ever again. Still, I would smile at her, grateful for one last opportunity to see the only woman I had ever cherished.  

Tears clouded my eyes. I would never see Christine’s face again, nor would I ever hear her voice. Death would have been a kinder end than years of living like a rat in the shadows, denied my most basic desire of acceptance. I didn’t care if she hated me; I would always love her. Always. She could have kicked the stool from beneath my feet and sent my body swinging from the gallows and I would not have thought less of her. I would have been grateful to be near her another moment, my last moments. I would have thanked her for being brave enough to end my misery, to give me this one last gift.

The front door opened and swiftly shut. “Meg?” Madeline called.

“Supper is almost ready,” Meg yelled. 

“Has he eaten?” Madeline asked, keeping her voice low. 

If Meg answered verbally, I didn’t hear it. 

“It’s been four days.” Madeline released a sigh of frustration. “Possibly longer.” 

“He’s had tea,” Meg offered. 

“That isn’t enough,” Madeline said. “He will starve to death alone in his bedroom.”

“What do you want me to do, Mother? Force feed him like a child?”

“No, I suppose not,” Madeline agreed. 

“I made coffee,” her daughter offered.

“He doesn’t care for coffee.”

I should not have been surprised by Madeline’s words. At one time Madeline had known me better than anyone else in the world. Honestly, she had been the only person who knew me at all. 

She brought me sweets from a shop several streets from the Opera House when I spent days upon days awake, a slave to my creativity. Her breaks from grueling rehearsals were often spent with me, which curbed the loneliness. I had always looked forward to her visits, and for years she was the only one who knew I existed. I ventured out onto the streets of Paris, hooded and cloaked so that no one saw my face. I vanished into crowds same as anyone else, but I was not part of society. 

It was Madeline who had always made me feel human. She spoke my name and gently placed her hand atop mine or on my shoulder in motherly fashion. When she looked at me and smiled or laughed, I knew that for all of the world that had despised me, I had one person living who offered me friendship. 

Years had passed since Madeline and I had been close. Silence grew between us--at times more my doing than hers, in other moments she focused on her daughter rather than the disfigured boy she had taken in--and despite wanting to speak to her every time I heard her voice, I kept my back turned and eyes cast down. 

I was inexplicably angry at Madeline. Foolishly, childishly angry at her for living her life when I had no one and nothing to fill my days but music. And despite all of that anger, I wanted her to walk into my bedroom and resume the friendship we had once enjoyed despite me constantly pushing her away. Surely she had to have known I was being insolent and disagreeable for no other reason than to garner her attention. How could she not know?

Gingerly I touched the wound on my cheek and winced. I truly never would have thought she would have raised a hand at me, but she had done much worse, and the injury I had sustained was another reminder of all I had destroyed. 

“I’ll take a plate to him,” Madeline offered. 

My throat tightened and my lips quivered. After all I had destroyed, after all the ways I had shown her I was broken, Madeline Giry still attempted to repair me. 

All I had to do was allow it. 

 

oOo

 

“There is a party,” Christine said with a sigh one evening. “Mother Giry requires that I socialize with the other girls.”

“Being invited to an evening of merriment and food? It sounds dreadful,” I agreed quite sardonically. 

“You are teasing me.” Christine slouched in the chapel, her skirts in a puff around her that made it appear she sat on a light blue cloud. Her curls of hair were somewhat lop-sided, her cheeks a little too pink, but she was still the embodiment of perfection and I looked forward to our time spent together, even if we were not in the same room. 

“So I am.”

“Do you like parties?” Christine asked.

“I am not one for crowds.”

If I had been born different--if I had been born perfect like Christine--I was certain I would have enjoyed attending balls and gatherings. For many long years I had envied men who could simply flash a smile and make young ladies weak in the knees. Equally I envied the men who walked into a room unnoticed and took their place in a group of friends or slipped effortlessly into the background. 

“I will spend the whole night alone,” Christine pouted. 

Thankfully she could not see me as I rolled my eyes. “You are hardly alone.”

“You will be with me? In spirit?” 

“You have Meg Giry.”

Christine rolled her eyes. “Meg will be at her mother’s side the entire night.” 

“Madame keeps a watchful eye,” I admitted. "I am certain she will keep you and the rest of the girls safe."

Madeline had always watched over the girls like a protective hawk. She made certain the older men who were lifelong patrons of the theater did not assume their deep pockets meant a young girl would sit on their laps or follow them to a darker corner of the theater. I admired the way she marched toward any man she saw attempting to lure one of her girls away and immediately intervened, and although she did know it, there were a handful of times when a falling prop or scenery coming down unexpectedly prevented an incident when she was preoccupied. 

“I would rather stay here than attend the party,” Christine said. 

Flattered as I was for her preference, I had no desire to see her become a hermit like me. Partially because I desired to live vicariously through her experiences. Partially because I didn’t want her to be anything like me as she was far too good for such a wretched life. 

“You’ve dressed for the occasion,” I pointed out. 

Christine dramatically dropped her arms to her sides and her skirts puffed further out. “I hate this dress. I would rather be naked.” 

I pursed my lips to prevent laughing at her unexpected outburst. On the other side of the mirror, Christine sucked in a breath and turned bright red. 

“Forgive me, my angel. That was inappropriate to say in front of a holy entity.” She bowed her head and whispered for God to forgive her as well. 

There was nothing Christine could have done that would have lessened my affection for her. She was the true embodiment of perfection in my eyes. 

“You look breathtaking in your gown,” I said. “You should attend the party.”

“Will you be with me?” she nervously asked. "Won't you? My guardian and angel of music."

“As often as possible.”

I allowed myself the luxury of a perfect fantasy in which I entered the party with Christine on my arm. She would have been radiant and I would have proudly faded into the background while everyone focused their attention on my lovely companion. While men gawked and women envied her, she would glance over her shoulder and smile, and in a single heartbeat, reassure me that her heart belonged only to me.

Christine closed her eyes and inhaled. “I feel you,” she murmured. 

Her words were unexpectedly alluring. My breath caught and my hands balled into fists as heat roared through me in ways I had never experienced before. The core of my being tightened.

“Christine,” I whispered hoarsely. 

She smiled when I said her name. “Angel?” she questioned with her eyes still closed. “Do you have a name? A human name?”

Words momentarily failed me. Erik was not the name of an angel. It was in fact the name of a man hiding behind a mirror impersonating an angel. I was an earthbound disappointment, a fraud desperate to gain favor with a woman who would not have spoken to me if she knew the truth. 

“I have no name,”  I said at last. 

Christine appeared disappointed while deep inside I felt ashamed. “What name would you give yourself?” she persisted. 

Again I hesitated, willing her to say my given name, to call to me in a sweet whisper that would make the rest of the world fall away. I ached for the luxury of being human to her. 

“I do not have use for a name, Christine.” 

Save for Madeline and Meg Giry, the world did not know that a disfigured man lived beneath the Opera House. In truth, I had no use for my given name just as society had no use for me. The traveling fair and my time in Persia made it abundantly clear that I was a pariah that lacked any redeeming qualities. I was the Devil’s Son, the Shah of Shah’s beast, and his cruel daughter’s toy. I was a monster. Creatures of the night needed no names; they were called by their misdeeds, terrifying and nameless. 

A name bound me to the mortality I despised, however, the title of angel was rather limitless. 

“I shall attend the party, my angel,” Christine said at last. She offered a half-hearted sigh at the end. “But you will come to me tomorrow night?”

“Of course,” I promised. “And then you may tell me everything.”

At last she seemed satisfied. “I do hope Emilio is in attendance.” 

“And what of Miss Buckingshire?”

Christine scrunched up her face with utter disdain. “Oh! That old hag! She may as well be a childless spinster.”

Her words amused me. I stood and watched as she sprang up from her seat and turned in a circle, allowing her skirts to elegantly float around her. 

“Angel?” Christine said. “How do I look?” 

“Radiant as always, my dear.”

Christine placed her hand over her heart. “You flatter me, my angel.”

“You are worthy of such flattery, my Christine.” 

Chapter 6: Two Orphans

Notes:

Previously:

(Presently) Erik attempts to become accustomed to domestic life and sharing a home with the Girys.

(Past) Christine wants to know more about the mysterious Angel of Music.

Up next: Voice lessons and self-imposed loneliness.

Speaking with others face-to-face had never come easily to me. My parents had no use for me and I could not recall a single instance where conversations took place. At the very most, my father stood over my broken and crumpled body and hurled slurred insults at me. At the very least, my mother stared off into the distance and murmured nonsense to herself while I asked if she loved me. 

In my time spent with the traveling fair, I spent the first five months a virtual mute and the last five months struggling to bond with other performers. 

Most of them had traveled together for a handful of years, oddities of the world who put their unique traits to work in order to feed themselves and make a meager living. There was a woman with spots like a cheetah that were mostly the work of elaborate tattoos and a few unfortunate birthmarks on her arms, a man of considerable girth who became winded after brief walks around the grounds, and a strong man who was no oddity but rather the son of a farmer who spoke broken Hungarian and French. 

I was younger than all of them by well over a decade, and while they did not seem to mind my presence, they did not welcome me. The times when they did include me in conversation, I stammered for words and barely spoke above a whisper. My inherent shyness and inability to carry a conversation deepened my loneliness. Amongst the oddities, I was well and truly the oddest.

Christine, however, opened a part of me that I had not known existed. I spent long hours staring at my pocket watch, willing the minutes to tick by faster so that I could visit with her in the chapel. I often arrived well before she did and sat impatiently on a little stool, waiting for her to grace me with her presence. 

I needed her in my life. She was far more necessary than food, water, or oxygen--and as the days turned into weeks, I wished to become invaluable to her as well. 

“Your posture is atrocious,” I said to her one day. 

Christine immediately sat upright. “I beg your pardon?” 

“You said you did not get the part you desired in the spring opera, correct?” I asked. 

“No, I did not,” she answered warily. 

“Sing.”

Her eyes bulged in the sockets. “Sing? Now?”

“Warm up your voice first.” 

She played with her necklace and looked askance. “I feel foolish.” 

“Do you wish to improve?” 

“Of course.”

“Then warm up your voice and sing for me.”

She gasped. “No! I could never!”

“Why not?”

“I would be embarrassed.”

“It’s me, Christine. You needn’t be embarrassed in front of me. Not ever.”

Her expression softened. 

“Do you trust me?”  I asked. 

Christine considered my words for a long, agonizing moment before at last she nodded. “What should I sing?”

“Whatever you choose for your audition.” 

Christine returned to slouching, and in a meek voice suitable for a frightened mouse, she managed to squeak her way through a shockingly dreadful rendition of an aria. 

My God , I thought to myself once she finished. I had not found suitable, gentle phrasing to voice my utter disappointment when she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. 

“You are upset?” 

“Father,” she hiccuped. “He would be so disappointed.”

“There is room for improvement,” I said, which made her cry far harder than she had previously. 

I would like to think that had I stood before her with no wall between us, I would have lifted her chin and dried her tears. With her face cupped between my hands, I would have looked her in the eye and vowed to assist her in improving her voice. 

But I was not beside Christine. I stood behind stone and glass on the other side of a mirror in a cold and drafty corridor with rats squeaking further down the hall and a questionable puddle gathering additional moisture from a damp ceiling not far from my feet. I could not touch Christine and offer comfort and guidance. 

“Christine,” I whispered, my voice low and commanding. “We will do this together.” 

Several agonizing moments passed before she managed to calm herself enough to look at the mirror. I watched in silence as her lips continued to quiver and she rubbed her reddened eyes and blotchy face. 

“Can you simply touch me and give me your gifts of music?” she asked. 

I longed for it to be so simple. If only I could have simply reached out and offered my ethereal grace, to transfer perfect pitch, unmatched confidence, and vibrato to make all of Paris rejoice. 

“What would be the fun in that?” I asked, although I imagined it would be quite enjoyable. It was a wicked thought, one that I would not entertain. Chrstine was my friend and there was no place for lecherous thoughts. 

“You must learn to sing,” I continued. “You must earn your gifts. It will be all the more satisfying.”

She couldn’t see me, of course, but I still made a face, slightly taken aback by my own choice of words. ‘Satisfying’ indeed. I was feeling quite dissatisfied now that I thought about it. 

A look of determination flitted through her gaze. “I will do whatever you say.”

From the other side of the mirror, I smiled to myself. She had made this exceptionally easy for me. 

“Sit up straight,” I commanded. 

She was a quick and eager learner and fortunately for Christine, I had spent several years in every part of the theater, including a cove where the voice teacher spent two hours a day with the principal performers. I learned a great deal about different techniques for singing and acting, despite having no real interest in either as I considered myself a composer and musician. 

Still, I figured sitting in secretly on lessons might assist with my own improvements when it came to music. In addition, I had a voracious appetite for knowledge and enjoyed learning new skills. 

Most of the time, however, I enjoyed the voice lessons for no other reason than to hear the principal soprano an tenor become frustrated and curse in Italian before she burst into tears, stormed out of the cove for four and a half minutes before she dramatically returned to her lesson and valiantly continued.

The tenor, on the other hand, crossed his arms and huffed, awaiting La Carlott’s inevitable return.  

I often wondered if she consulted with a pocket watch and adhered to a strict four and a half minutes of tears and stomping feet as it was always the same amount of time. 

Christine’s first lesson started with tears but ended with her seemingly quite satisfied. We did little more than work on correcting posture and warm up exercises, but within an hour, her voice no longer trembled and she even sang briefly with her voice above a whisper. There was hope for her. 

“This was much better than you simply touching me,” Christine said as she stood. 

Her words stirred unexpected disappointment within me. “Indeed.” 

I looked her over, longing for a time when she would perhaps allow barriers to be broken, when her voice was strong and she wished to meet her angel in the flesh. 

Soon, I told myself, wait patiently and eventually she will see what I am on the inside. In time, she would love me and see that fate had placed us in the same theater, two orphans made whole, sewn together with strings of a melody. 

 

OoO

 

The smell of supper filled the entire house, an enticing blend of meats, breads, vegetables and spices. Meg spent the better part of four hours within the kitchen, and judging by the sound of her whistling and singing she could not have been more delighted. 

I had often wondered if Meg was content in the ballet. She was a decent enough dancer, one who would have been as celebrated as her mother if she had made the commitment to practice day and night, but Meg was not interested in spending hours on end dancing. She preferred socializing to rehearsals, and her talent for engaging in conversation with anyone on a variety of topics would have better served the Opera House in attracting more patrons if they’d employed her as a host of sorts.

People were incapable of disliking Meg Giry. She was a pleasant conversationalist, had a witty sense of humor, and perpetually looked like a wide-eyed child awaiting Saint Nicholas. 

Meg was also prone to quite unfortunately shrieking whenever a mouse scurried through the shadows or one of the stage hands sneaked up and grabbed her by the shoulders. To make matters worse, some of the more cruel dancers and theater employees found it quite humorous that her screams were often followed by her bursting into tears, an unfortunate habit she never outgrew. 

The house, however, seemed to make her happy. There was a garden in the back of the house that she’d already started to weed, and a tangle of grape vines growing over a bed of strawberries that she lovingly freed from ivy along the stone wall encasing the back garden. 

“Next year I will make grape and strawberry jam,” I overheard Meg tell her mother. 

“If we are still living here next year,” Madeline replied. 

Meg grew quiet for a moment. “Where would we go?” 

“I haven’t had a moment to consider our options since...since I have not had a moment to think since that night.”

That night.

I knew what Madeline meant even if she didn’t say it. Since the night I had destroyed the only home Madeline and Meg had ever known. Since I had driven myself out of the sanctuary I had spent years creating. Since the Opera House had gone up in flames and sent gendarmes and their dogs scouring every alleyway, street, and dark corner of the city for a man who had called himself a ghost. 

“Oh,” Meg said. 

She sounded sadder than I would have expected given that the beautifully furnished house was occupied by a belligerent and detestable ghost who was currently eavesdropping on their conversation. 

“I will ask him,” Madeline said. 

“Perhaps you should wait until after supper,” Meg suggested. “I made cherry pie for dessert. It should be ready in twenty minutes.”

I inhaled deeply and realized that the magnificent smell that had caused my stomach to rumble and mouth to water was indeed cherry pie. I could practically taste the tart burst of juice followed by the sweet granules of sugar dusted over the flaky crust warm out of the oven. 

“He may not eat supper,” Madeline said.

Had I been in the kitchen with the two of them, I would have whole-heartedly disagreed. I would have at least tried a few bites of dinner before I gorged myself on pie.

“No, but perhaps he will eat pie,” Meg said. “You always mentioned that he had a sweet tooth.”

Ah, yes, my legacy of being a ghost who survived off of sugar. My stomach rumbled again, the pangs of hunger so strong I felt slightly nauseous from four days worth of starvation. 

“I’ll bring him a bite after we clear the table,” Madeline said. 

“But…” Meg’s voice trailed away. 

“What, Meg?”

“I set the table.”

“Is he wearing the mask?” Madeline asked. 

“No.” Meg drew out the single word and sounded as though she would add something else, but she apparently reconsidered.

“Then it is unlikely that he will come down and dine with us,” her mother answered. 

I waited for Meg to tell Madeline that I had spent most of the afternoon sitting in the dining room with a cup of tea, but she did not say a word. Instead, the two of them set the table and proceeded to enjoy the meal Meg had cooked while I sat alone in my bedroom and stared at jars of ink, several pens, and the dwindling supply of paper before me. 

I wanted out of the bedroom that had become my new cage, but I couldn’t bring myself to join them in the dining room, to disrupt their evening where I was not wanted. Given that Madeline didn't think I would accompany them at the table, I couldn't possibly disappoint her and take a seat across from her. 

From the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet, I ached with my self-imposed loneliness. My place was behind walls and mirrors, away from polite society. The pangs of hunger subsided, replaced by a racing heart and heavy chest that eventually turned into numbness. 

There was no one in the world I loathed more than myself--and I knew somewhere in Europe there was a young woman named Christine Daae who possibly despised me more than I hated myself. 

I wasn’t sure why I thought of her. 

Actually, I was quite aware of why I thought of her. Because I was a desperate fool who still wanted a second chance. 

Chapter 7: Unprepared

Notes:

Previously: Christine started lessons & later, Erik reminisces about the past

In this chapter: Christine is eager to claim her spotlight while Erik remembers what it was like in the past when he was friends with Madeline.

Chapter 7

 

Lessons took place once a week, but we met almost every night aside from the days in which the theater held a matinee performance and an evening performance as Christine was exhausted and I rarely stayed for both operas. 

Her talent was undeniable once she was able to warm up properly and became more confident in herself. The way in which she walked into the chapel changed as did the manner in which she spoke. Within six months, the shy girl who sat hunched over and fidgeting with her skirts became a young woman who held her chin up and used her full voice. 

“I want to be the understudy for Carlotta,” she told me one evening. 

Carlotta had been a soprano for the Opera Populaire for nearly as long as I’d resided within the theater. Originally she had wanted to replace her cousin, Cathedra, who had been the principal soprano for a decade, but Carlotta was far more interested in strutting around Paris in the latest fashions and rarely attended rehearsals in a timely manner. It had only been seven or eight years since she’d become the principal and quite frankly, it was undeserved.

The manager originally refused to give her what she desired and she acted like a spoiled brat in return. Eventually, however, Carlotta improved enough to earn the spotlight and the manager, who had swore not to bend a knee to her, became tired of fighting her every night and relented. 

“To my knowledge, Carlotta does not have an understudy,” I said. 

“No, she is a prideful cow and if she does not perform, the show does not go on,” Christine bitterly complained. 

“You are not fond of Carlotta?”

Christine snorted. “No one is.”

I sat back and steepled my fingers, considering Christine’s words. “You have excelled these last few months and should be very proud of yourself.”

“I am grateful to you for your tutelage,” Christine humbly replied. 

“But…” I pressed, sensing there was more to be said. 

“But I want to know if you will guide me to my goals, my sweet angel.”

“And what are these goals, my dear Christine?”

“I want to be principal soprano,” she said flatly. 

“I thought you wanted to be an understudy.”

“Now that I have thought about it, I’ve changed my mind.”

“That swiftly?” I questioned.

She shrugged. “Why not reach for the highest star in the sky?”

I envied her a bit, her desire to obtain what currently seemed unattainable.

“Lessons twice a week, then?” I suggested. “More as needed?”

Christine readily nodded. “I am honored to be your student.”

Her flattery was well-placed. “I am honored to be your teacher.”

She ran her index finger down the length of her throat and smiled at herself in the mirror, unaware of my presence. She tilted her head and adjusted a curl of hair, smiling to herself. 

“Angel?” she asked.  

“Yes, my darling?”

Her smile broadened every time I called her my dear or my darling , and the way she responded to my affection for her pleased me greatly . The pink of her cheeks, the flash of teeth in her grin, and the way her breaths quickened stirred deep within me. I had known what it felt like to suffer the heat of a fever, but the fire inside that she stoked was undeniably more pleasurable.

“Do you think I am pretty?”

My breath caught, blood pulsing through my veins. With each lesson, I had started to notice more details about Christine. The curve of her lips, the shape of her mouth, the way she tilted her head up. 

“Pretty would not suffice my description of you,” I said. 

Christine furrowed her brow. “What would suffice, my angel?”

My mouth went suddenly dry, my heart thudding as I attempted to collect the proper words to form an elegant sentence. If I had been given a moment to commit my thoughts to paper, I would have described her with the skill of a poet. Off the top of my head, however, I stammered. 

“Certainly no words in any language I am able to speak would do justice,” I answered. 

By the grace of God alone I managed to flatter Christine without saying much of anything at all. She blushed profusely and placed her hand over her heart, drawing attention to her heaving chest. 

“What do you look like?” she asked suddenly. 

The romantic fantasy unfurling in my mind came to an abrupt end. I sat very still, unable to find my voice and give a suitable description of myself. There was nothing worth describing, nothing that would make me less wretched. I had always been tall and thin--boarding on skeletal depending on my self deprecating habits and how little sustenance I consumed. My hair had fallen out in alarmingly large quantities in my youth, an unfortunate side-effect of what I assumed was the stress of enduring my own parents and the traveling fair. The cycle of hair loss seemed to correlate to being tormented by my father whenever he decided he hated me, as well as being beaten six times a day for entertainment. My back and sides were a tapestry of scars from being lashed in Persia, my right forearm and the bottom of my left foot left with perfect circles from cigar burns, and lastly--the root of my suffering--the wounds I had carried since birth along my face and skull.

A lonely but otherwise peaceful decade and a half beneath the Opera House had resulted in my hair growing back sufficiently, albeit somewhat thin. I had access to an abundance of food in the kitchen and pantries, which had lessened my gaunt appearance. Finely tailored clothing and boots concealed the cigar burns and the gnarled, raised scars from the whip, but only a mask could hide the hideous features that had delivered me into a lifetime of darkness and shame. 

“Are you...here?” Christine asked. 

“I am,” I whispered. 

“Have I offended you?” Christine asked. 

“You have not. My apologies, Christine, I do not have a suitable reply to your inquiry.”

“Will I be able to see you? Once I have become principal?”

Carotta would not willingly relinquish her coveted title as principal, and although Christine had improved, I doubted she would be offered more than a supporting role for quite some time. Our lessons would continue and I would become a pivotal part of her life. In time...and perhaps with a bit of persuasion...she would become understudy to Carlotta. I wagered it would be at least twelve months before that was a consideration, and after a year of devoting my time to her, she would be prepared and accepting of her angel despite his faults. 

“Once you are principal, yes.”

Christine beamed. “There is an audition tomorrow. I will ask to be considered.”

I immediately sobered. “An audition for what, precisely?” 

“For Rigoletto. ” Christine tossed her hair over her shoulder. “I will be Gilda.”

Christine was not prepared to be cast in such a role, which I would have told her if she had not immediately jumped to her feet and skittered off to bed for the night, leaving me behind the mirror with my mouth agape. 

I sat for a long moment after she had gone, dreading what would happen during her audition. In due time she would be the perfect lead in any production, but she struggled with her vibrato still as she said it did not feel natural. There was also the matter of self-taught habits that needed undoing with further breathing techniques which would not be accomplished overnight. Truthfully, I wasn’t sure if she would show enough improvement to audition in another six months. These things took time, of which I had more than enough.
“Damn it,” I said under my breath before I returned to my lakeside home and filled the darkness with angry, chaotic melodies. 

If Christine auditioned the following day, she was going to fail. That failure, I feared, would be my fault, at least in her eyes. 

 

oOo

Madeline delivered a most generous slice of pie for dinner, along with a cut of beef in a red wine reduction sauce paired with an array of roasted vegetables and mashed potatoes worthy of being served at a royal banquet hall.

One bite told me everything I needed to know: Meg, it seemed, had become quite the chef now that she was no longer on the stage and her true talent had come out. Everything presented to me was mouth-watering and heavenly. 

My desire to starve to death in the upstairs bedroom dwindled, and with Madeline deciding to sit with me while I ate, I found my spirits lifted. 

I missed Madeline more than she would ever know. I missed everything about her from the way she never failed to smile when she saw me to her knees up against mine. She was the only person who had never looked at me for what was beneath my mask. What she saw within me was something I had never seen inside of myself.

Over the course of an hour, with her perched on the chair beside mine, it felt like a part of me that I thought had been amputated slowly returned. 

“Do you remember that time on the rooftop?” she asked.

“Which one?” I asked as I stuffed my mouth with beef. I wondered what Meg would have thought if she'd seen me voraciously digging into the meal she had prepared. 

There had been many moments Madeline and I had shared on the Opera House rooftop, the two of us indulging in a delectable meal as we sat on the ledge and looked down at the magnificent city of Paris. 

“I brought you cake.”

“That hardly narrows it down. Do you have any idea how often you brought cake?”

Madeline chuckled to herself and I smiled back at her, appreciating the first real conversation I'd enjoyed in years. The loneliness I found myself surrounded by was growing more each day to the point where I could barely stand to wake and face another day alone.

“I suppose there was quite a lot of cake,” she admitted.

“The cooks and bakers for the Opera House certainly made an abundance of sweets,” I said. 

Everything within the kitchen had been ripe for the taking, and I had indulged in a glutenous amount of food over the years. There were so many people within the Opera House, both those who called the dormitories and private apartments home as well as the workers who had residences outside of the building who ate at least one meal at the theater that no one would ever notice a loaf of bread missing one day or a roasted chicken the next. Sometimes I took an entire week’s worth of food on a Sunday night and other times I treated the kitchen like my own private market and selected a few items here and there. 

I had never been caught, despite eating like a hog off the market. 

“Six months after you arrived and you were quite well-nourished.”

“Do you mean fat?” I asked, keeping my tone light as I pinched my sides where there was not an ounce of extra flesh.

“No, of course not. You had meat on your bones and a bit of muscle as well if I remember correctly. You've always been lean, but your arm and shoulders were exceptionally strong. Your legs as well from the stairs.”

"So many stairs," I agreed.

Madeline glanced down at my knees, her jovial expression giving way to a frown of concern. 

And now look at me , I wanted to say. Gaunt as death with the muscle tone of an elderly man wasting away. 

For once I held my tongue as I didn’t want to ruin the conversation as I’d taken great pleasure in Madeline’s company, reliving delightful moments in our past, back when I had been a boy who went from frightened of the world to dreaming of a brighter future. 

“I remember you playing the violin you found in the cellars one summer evening on the rooftop,” Madeline said. “You had an entire crowd of people down below standing on the steps, enamored with such beautiful music.

“The clouds in the sky were pink,” I replied.

Madeline readily nodded. “I remember thinking it felt like we were standing in a dream. It was such a beautiful evening. Early July, I think.” 

“I played my own compositions,” I said. 

One was the earliest rendition of the Don Juan Triumphant overture, the opera that was my life’s work. I had started to toil away at the concept around the age of twelve or thirteen, composing bits and pieces of music, revising portions, rearranging notes, and discarding the entire work to start over again. 

I wasn’t sure what I had played that evening or if it resembled the final selections performed a mere ten to twelve days earlier. 

With my plate scraped clean, I took a sip of tea and exhaled, thinking of the pink and blue dress worn by the character Aminta in the second act of Don Juan Triumphant .

“Have you heard anything about Christine?” I asked.

My Christine and Passarino’s Aminta. She had breathed life into the performance, the perfect voice for my beloved opera.  I had never thought I'd see it performed, and while it wasn't performed in its entirety, the part that had been portrayed on the stage was magical. 

Or at least it would have been if I'd been concentrating on the performance rather than waiting for the moment I had anticipated for my life to change forever. It had changed, make no mistake, but in the worst way possible.

Madeline remained silent, but her eyes turned wide and her lips parted in surprise of my inquiry. Her posture stiffened, indicating that she had not expected the question and that I should not have asked. 

“Nothing,” she said, turning from me. 

A single word spoken and Madeline sounded less than pleased with me. I kept my gaze pinned on Madeline’s visage, analyzing her expression. I wondered if she was telling me the truth. Had she not heard from Christine or did she know more than she let on? I felt certain that Madeline had heard something or knew where Christine had fled. 

“I am not asking because I wish to contact her,” I said, forcing a laugh that sounded anything but humorous. “I am merely asking because…because I hope she is well.”

“I’m sure she is doing fine,” Madeline said. 

“Good,” I replied. “I want nothing but the best for Christine. And her fiance.”

The mere thought of Christine’s ‘fiance’ left a bitter taste in my mouth.  I despised the boy who had swooped in and taken Christine from me, who had stolen the only opportunity I would ever have for a lifetime of happiness. 

The vicomte de Chagny could have had any woman he desired, but he desired mine, the only woman in the world who had wanted to be my lover. 

That pathetic whelp in his luxurious silk cravat and fine suits had whisked her away right from beneath my nose. He had made her believe that I was a monster, that I was unworthy of her affection. He convinced Christine that I was a beast. 

She would have been mine. She should have been mine. 

“Erik, this is for the best,” Madeline said. 

Nothing could have been further from the truth. If she meant the best for Raoul de Chagny’s, then perhaps yes, leaving with Christine was in his best interest. He had obtained a worthy prize. Quite frankly, I doubted he would be faithful to her once they were wed. Undoubtedly he would have her in bed and bred, producing his legitimate heirs while he entertained mistresses and eventually tired of his wife. 

That sort of miserable, lonely life would not be in Christine’s best interest and losing her was not in mine. Only the boy would be victorious, leaving two others devastated and alone in his wake. 

“Erik,” Madeline pleaded. 

“I heard you.”

“Please, you must learn to let go of her for good,” Madeline said. “It will be healthier for you.”

I had no need or desire for health. I wanted sickness and death, to wallow in my self-pity until my mind and heart rotted away for good. I wanted to be shrouded in darkness, to wait for her to change her mind. I wanted what would never be mine and it stabbed at me, a knife made of longing and despair.

The company I had desired now felt like a hindrance. 

“I have finished eating. You should leave,” I said without looking in Madeline’s direction.

“Erik–”

“I said I am done eating. You should leave.” 

 

Chapter 8: Time Marches On

Notes:

Previously: Christine decides to audition for a role before Erik thinks she's ready. / Erik enjoys Madeline's company until a question changes the conversation.

Ahead:

Christine reveals how the audition went / Spring is upon Paris

Chapter 8

The audition--as I expected--did not go well. I arrived outside of the chapel mere moments before Chrstine, who slammed the door with such force that I swore under my breath in surprise. 

“Angel?” she said through her teeth. 

“Christine,” I jovially responded as I adjusted my overcoat and cravat. 

“I did not get the part,” she blurted out. 

I looked up and saw her standing before the mirror, her hands balled into fists, her face twisted in frustration. Never had I seen her so enraged, and in that moment, I was grateful that she could not see me gaping back at her. 

“That is quite unfortunate.”

My words were not well received. She whirled around, striking the brass candle holders to her left. The unlit candles toppled to the ground with hard thumps against the stone floor, followed by the crash of metal. 

“Unfortunate?” she seethed. “Is that what you think?”

My heart unexpectedly raced, my skin prickling at her unexpected response. I considered my next words with great care in an attempt to de-escalate her anger. 

“You are being quite unreasonable,” I calmly said. 

In hindsight, it was not the best reply. I turned my head from her as if I expected to be met with a blow to the side of the face. 

There was silence at first, but then, as I expected, she crumpled her face and the true beast was unleashed and set forth. 

Christine shoved the remaining candles off the altar, heedless to whether they were lit or not. She tore several books off the shelf and threw the pillows in the reading nook into a pool of wax and dying candle flames. 

Quite clearly telling a woman that she was being unreasonable in the midst of a fit of unreasonable anger was the incorrect response. Dumbfounded, I merely gaped as she dropped to her knees, covered her face with her hands, and screamed until her frustration turned to tears of sorrow. Then, she simply wept.

“Christine?” Madeline burst into the chapel and came to an abrupt stop once she spotted Chrstine’s crumpled form and the destruction around her. “What has happened here?”

Christine rubbed her eyes and straightened her skirts. “I’m not certain, Madame.”

Madeline planted her hands on her hips. “You had best think hard, girl.”

Christine’s bottom lip quivered, and for a moment I considered walking down the hall and into the chapel in order to defend Christine. Stepping through the mirror would have been far quicker, but if I appeared, I imagined the situation would have been made exponentially worse given Chrstine had no idea I could see her.

“They laughed at me,” Christine blurted out. “When I left the stage after my audition, they all laughed.”

“Who?” Madeline asked. 

“Everyone,” Christine whispered.

My blood ran cold as I considered the myriad times people had laughed at me for no other reason than I appeared different. Christine’s outburst suddenly seemed quite justified. She was humiliated. I knew what that felt like better than anyone else.

“You were not ready for the part,” Madeline sensibly said. 

“But I’ve been practicing.”

Madeline gave a sympathetic nod. “You are young, Christine, and there will be many parts available to you in the future. Surely you understand that this is not the end of your career. You will improve with time and patience.”

Christine sniffled. “I want to be principal, Madame.”

“Perhaps some day,” Madeline answered. “Speak to Monsieur Reyer privately about lessons. Perhaps he will refer you as a student before Signor Gianetti retires.”

“I have a tutor,” Christine said as she finally stood and examined the disaster around her.  

Madeline crossed her arms. “Oh?”

Christine bent and picked up several candles, which she placed on the reading nook bench before standing the candle holders upright. “Six months now,” she said. 

“You have improved,” Madeline said. “Quite a bit, actually. I thought you were maturing, but now I see there is more to it.”

“I have improved, but not enough,” Christine sniffled. 

“Who is your tutor?”

At last Christine genuinely smiled. Her gaze shifted to the mirror where I stood. “He was sent by my father. He is an angel.”

Madeline’s expression remained impassive, but I noticed her glance at the mirror and back at Christine. “I have no doubt your father keeps a watchful eye over you. He adored you, my sweet darling.”

Christine picked up one of the discarded books and dusted off the cover. “I will do better in honoring his memory.”

Madeline nodded and watched as Christine finished cleaning up the mess she had made. “Go straight to the theater,” she said once Christine finished. “There are modifications to the second act that need to be discussed before the next performance.”

Christine looked sullenly at Madeline. “I was not yet done in here.”

Madeline silently stared Christine down before Christine at last shuffled out of the chapel without looking back. 

“Stay where you are,” Madeline said several seconds after Christine walked out. “Please.”

Breath held, I watched as she walked out of the chapel and quietly closed the door. A moment later I heard the tap of her cane and the creak of the hinges as the door at the end of the hall groaned before she appeared in the vacant servant’s hallway. 

“Erik,” she said, greeting me with a warm and familiar smile that I had not seen in recent months. “You look well.”

I nodded once and stepped toward her. “As do you.” 

Despite the fact that no one saw me aside from the Girys’, I made certain I dressed appropriately at all times. My clothing was impeccably tailored, my boots kept shined to perfection, and whatever ring I wore matched my cufflinks. Through and through I desired to be a gentleman, and looking the part made me feel less like a pariah and more like a citizen of Paris and a patron of the theater. 

“You are tutoring Mademoiselle Daae, I presume?” 

Straight to the point, as I should have expected from Madeline. I lifted my chin and inhaled.

“I am,” I warily replied. “I did not know she intended to audition this early into her lessons. I would have dissuaded her if given the opportunity to do so.”

Madeline nodded. “She has always been one to daydream and fantasize. I am not surprised she was foolishly confident.”

“She is anything but foolish,” I said sharply. 

Madeline chose not to argue, which came as a surprise as I expected her to be quite annoyed that I continued to speak with Christine. 

“Her voice has improved,” Madeline admitted. “She is better than the majority of girls in the chorus.”

“I am aware.”

“She needs to learn discipline,” Madeline said. “Her greatest fault in the ballet has always been her lack of confidence and willingness to commit. She gives up too easily”

“She has shown a desire to commit to her lessons. Quite often she arrives early to our sessions, eager to improve.”

Madeline appeared somewhat impressed. “You’ve been tutoring her for six months now?” 

“I have.”

“How often?” 

“Once a week.”

“You meet with her here?” She gestured down the hall. “In the chapel?”

“It is convenient.”

“But you do not meet with her face-to-face?” Madeline asked. 

I immediately stiffened. “We meet in a way that is most appropriate.” 

“A man meeting a young woman behind a wall is appropriate?” Madeline pressed. 

Heat flooded my cheeks and scorched up the back of my neck. “It is better this way.”

Madeline had the audacity to look me up and down. “Why?” she questioned. 

“You already know the answer.”

I thought for certain she would instigate an argument or reprimand me for my actions, but she did neither. Instead she shifted her weight and continued to simply look me over.
“Would you prefer me back in a cage so that you may stare as long as you wish, Madame?” I coldly questioned. 

Her lips parted in momentary horror. “You already know the answer,” she quietly replied. “Quite frankly I cannot believe you would ask me such a question.”

Immediately I regretted my words, but I offered no apology. Madeline Giry had been good to me, far better than I deserved, and I had once loved her dearly as a mother, sister, and close friend. She had offered me reprieve in a world that had wanted to see me humiliated and executed for the crime of being born different. 

But our lives had taken different paths. She was a mother and a widow and I was vermin in the walls, a creature of night and shadows that had disappeared for a handful of years and returned barely alive and more damaged than should have been possible. 

“I will continue to tutor Mademoiselle Daae,” I said firmly. “And I will see that her goals are achieved and she is the understudy for Carlotta within the next six months.” 

There would be no persuading me otherwise. My mind was made up and I had every intention of dedicating myself to Christine’s betterment, no matter the cost. If I needed to meet with her three times a week, then so be it. She was a prodigy and I would guide her to her full potential, and together, through her voice, we would be made into one. 

“Be careful,” Madeline said. She looked me over one last time and failed to force a smile.  “It is good to see you, Erik.”

“Likewise, Madame.” 

“You are welcome to visit me any time. You know this, don’t you?”

I missed her terribly, the food and the conversations, the way she looked at me when she spoke and how she would take my hand in hers. No one had spoken to me for years and I longed for life to return to the way it had been when I was younger and she was my friend. 

“I know,” I said. 

“Will you come to visit tomorrow? For supper?”

“I cannot,” I replied. 

“Why not?”

I didn’t have an answer. I looked at her one last time and walked away, feeling cowardly for my retreat. 

OoO

 

The chill of winter still held the upper hand on spring, which seemed to be putting in very little effort to turn the buds and blooms into flowers and leaves. The world was dull and gray, which seemed quite fitting. 

I wasn’t sure when the weather would improve given the amount of years I’d spent comfortably underground in a little lakeside home where the ground was warmed by the bubbling springs that fed the mineral rich lake with clear, fresh water. 

Where I resided in the fifth cellar, the temperature stayed relatively the same all year long, as was the case with most caves, which I had learned long ago from the library of books I had at my disposal. There was never a need for heavy sweaters or thick blankets, although I did appreciate knitted wool socks direct from Scotland, as well as a pair of alpaca wool from South America, which I considered a bit of a luxury as the post alone was twice what the socks cost.

I regretted the hasty departure from the Opera House and the fine clothing and linens I’d been forced to leave behind. With a sigh, I looked over my shoulder at my bed, which I hadn’t bothered to make as it seemed rather pointless to straighten the sheets and pull the coverlet up to the pillows when I intended to ruin it again by sleeping curled up beneath two large blankets, the coverlet, and the sheets that were cold to the touch.

The upper floor of the house where I was now supposed to live was not nearly as warm as my previous accommodations. With the curtains drawn, it was still dark, possibly darker than my lakeside cottage as I hadn’t turned up the oil lamps. 

Instead, I sat plunged in darkness, shivering in the cold.

Foolish. This was nothing short of miserable foolishness. There was no need for the curtains to be closed day and night, for the hearth to go unlit and the oil lamps dark.  I had memorized the address for the Scottish wool socks and could have easily written a check and mailed it off with a note requesting a dozen of their thickest wool along with a sweater if I desired. A luxurious red wool sweater and a rainbow of different socks. 

And of course, several pairs made of alpaca wool dyed in rich colors. Hell, I could have purchased my own damned alpaca and had it shipped to my door, although I wasn’t quite certain a creature from South America would fully appreciate Paris. 

Most of my previous wardrobe had been more sensible color choices, not that what I wore mattered as no one ever saw me. I could very well dress like a peacock or some other exotic bird in an array of colors if I desired. 

But of course, those male birds in their bright plumage strutted around and sang in search of mates. I didn’t have to look around the room to know that I was and would forever be alone. 

That also didn’t mean I needed to sit in utter darkness and feed my despair. I tugged on the curtains in front of my writing desk and allowed light into the room. The skies were still gray, but the room still brightened. I stood and opened the curtains on the other side of the room, which faced the street, and the clouds parted. Leaning into the sill, I looked up at the patch of blue peeking out through the lower, rain-filled clouds. Sunlight reached the backs of my hands and my uncovered face.

It had been years since I’d felt sunlight on my flesh. There was no warmth to the sun, meager as it was, but I still found it enjoyable. 

I turned and looked around the bedroom, noticing the pale blue sheets and slightly darker coverlet. I blinked several times and turned my attention to the floor-length mirror and rich woodwork. 

Everything within my life had turned gray and flat. Colors had faded and music had abandoned me. From the moment I woke to when I closed my eyes, it felt as though I existed in a suspension of time.

Tears pricked the backs of my eyes as I turned back to the window and saw the tree outside had buds that would soon turn into flowers. The dormant world would live again, the hopelessness of winter giving way to spring at last. Despite the misery, there was still joy to be found. I merely had to look for it. 

I left the curtains open and stood admiring the sky until Madeline came up and knocked on the bedroom door. The clouds parted, my mood improved, and the melodies I thought would never find me slowly flowed back into my thoughts. 

Spring was on the horizon. I was ready to embrace the change. 

Chapter 9: The Worst Company

Notes:

Christine's vocal lessons take an unexpected turn that leaves Erik unsure of his student.

Chapter 9

 

There was no day and night in my world, but simply moments I shared with Christine and hours in which creativity flowed freely through me. I watched her from my box as she sang with the chorus and danced in the ballet, an undiscovered star in the shadows. 

Several weeks after Christine’s failed audition, she met me in the chapel and we discussed resuming lessons on Mondays and Thursdays. At first she was hesitant and afraid of failure, but I assured Christine that if she listened to my instruction and practiced, she would improve. 

“How are you so certain?” she asked me. 

“Because I can hear it in your voice. There is true talent within you.”

“But what if there isn’t?”

“Do you doubt your angel?”

At last Christine shook her head. “I could never doubt my angel.”

When we parted ways, Christine returned to the dormitory while I walked down to my secret abode, my steps light and mind filled with full orchestrations for an opera in which Christine would be my leading lady. 

The time wasn’t  right yet–for the debut of my opera or my protege, but in due time, it would all come together. 

Christine did improve immensely over the course of approximately twelve weeks and I was hopeful that this time around she would be ready to audition again for a larger role in the upcoming season. There was rumor that Carlotta wished to take time off for the summer and spend a few weeks in Rome visiting her family at their beach home, but not unless the manager agreed to stop all productions and force a lay-off. Her presumption that the theater would close on her behalf was outrageous but not unexpected as Carlotta saw herself as a gift to all who surrounded her. I found myself equally impressed and annoyed by her gumption. Christine, however, was simply annoyed. 

“Who does Carlotta think she is?” Christine seethed. 

“The leading soprano with no understudy,” I said despite knowing the question was rhetorical. 

Christine groaned dramatically. “She should be sacked.” 

In that regard I did not agree with Christine, but I thought it best not to argue over the matter. Crowds of people came to see La Carlotta perform. She was a wretched actress, but more times than not, the diva was still quite entertaining. Not always for the reasons that Carlotta expected, but she the crowds came to see her and witness some legendary tantrums. 

“Soon enough you will give them reason to promote you to understudy.”

“I do not want to simply be an understudy.”

I rubbed my chin, slightly annoyed by Christine’s desire to obtain perfection immediately. She was a natural, but even naturals needed practice and time to hone their skills and build their confidence, which is where she was truly lacking. 

“You must be patient.”

Christine crumpled up her face and balled her hands into fists. I thought for certain she would break down into a fit of tears, but she simply sat frozen for a long moment before she took a breath. 

“I do not want to be patient,” she said through her teeth. “I want to be perfect. It’s been four months.”

“It’s been three,” I corrected. “Overall, that is a relatively short amount of time.”

“I didn’t ask your opinion,” she snapped. 

Her statement and the way in which she spoke gave me pause. Mere weeks earlier she had been uncertain of herself and now she was intolerably bold. I was not fond of her assertion. 

“You are showing great improvement,” I pointed out.

Unexpectedly she kicked the mirror in a fit of anger and the glass rattled against the frame. I was surprised the glass didn’t shatter upon impact and relieved it didn’t open and reveal my hiding place as the latches were not meant to secure the mirror under force. 

“Six times a week,” she demanded. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“Monday, Thursday and Saturday. You will teach me three days a week going forward, twice a day.”

She was my student, not my commander. I was to be her master, the guiding force behind her talent. I didn’t care for her words or for her tone, nor did I have any intention to comply. While I may have agreed to a third day if she asked nicely, twice a day was out of the question.

“My father promised me,” she said. “My father promised that he would send me the angel of music. Are you my angel or do you deceive me?”

I inhaled sharply, feeling as though I had started to lose control. I couldn’t lose Christine. No matter what, I could not bear to lose her company or affection. Despite her sudden temper, despite how she addressed me, it was still better than being alone. 

That was what I convinced myself as I straightened my spine. 

“I am of course your angel,” I replied smoothly.

“Does my angel wish to be my teacher?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then why have you not agreed to teaching me six times a week?” She stepped closer to the mirror, her face twisted with malice, teeth bared like some rabid beast. “Do you have another student? Someone you prefer over me?”

“No,” I said swiftly, hoping to curb a second round of wrath. “No, of course there is no other. It is you alone. You are my only one. You will always be my only one.” 

Christine nodded slowly, her bottom lip quivering. She took a deep breath and stepped back, her demeanor changing quite drastically. “Good, I am honored to be your only student. I look forward to our next lesson, my angel.”

OoO

 

There were children playing outside across the street. With the windows open, I could very clearly hear the voices of three boys as they laughed and yelled to one another. 

For a long moment I stood at the window, the curtains partially drawn, and observed their game of tossing a ball back and forth to each other, occasionally kicking it toward the side of the street where I watched unnoticed. 

It was a small pleasure to watch them play together, a joy that I had never experienced before as I’d never lived in a traditional house. The very thought made me shudder. My life had been abnormal in every way imaginable, from the time spent in my parents’ cellar, to the traveling fair where I had been placed on display, the years in the opera house cellar followed by a brief time in Persia and then many more long years beneath the opera house. 

My moments of being a carefree youth had been few and far between, but every so often, something triggered a memory from my childhood that was not heavily steeped in humiliation and physical torment. 

I watched the boys run after each other, darting back and forth, and thought of escaping down to the shoreline late at night in the summer, how eagerly I stripped from my clothes and ran to the water, bathing myself in the cool, salty depths. I was probably ten or eleven at the time, still filled with hope for my future despite how dismal each day seemed.

Every time I roamed the beach, I fantasized about playing with other children and imagined myself with siblings. I allowed myself to pretend that I had brothers who begrudgingly allowed me to tag along, but in the end were glad for my company because they loved me so much and couldn’t bear to think of me left behind. 

That was all I had ever wanted; to be freely given affection. To be included. To be part of a family. My imagination carried me away to a life that didn’t exist. 

“It’s such a lovely day, isn’t it?” Madeline said from downstairs. 

“Who are you talking to, Mother?” Meg shouted from what sounded like the kitchen. 

Madeline sighed. “Where is he?” 

“Where he usually is,” Meg answered. 

“Has he come out at all?”

“Not as far as I am aware.”

I bit the inside of my cheek as Meg and Madeline spoke as if I were completely deaf and unaware that they spoke of me. 

“It’s his house,” Madeline said. “I hope he eventually realizes he can be wherever he desires.” 

My house? Hardly. None of this had been my doing. 

Madeline had purchased and furnished the residence. She had chosen which room was to be mine and where the bed and chest of drawers were located. She picked out the rug and the curtains as well. 

Nothing within the house belonged to me as all of my possessions were within the opera house still. I wondered if the mobs had destroyed most of what I had collected over the years or if they’d left it intact like a tomb.

In almost twenty years I had acquired a vast array of belongings, most of which were well-made and luxurious. It was a shame that everything had been abandoned. I supposed it was my fault, but still, I wanted some of it back. Not everything. Not the wedding gown I had purchased for Christine nor the wedding ring she had returned to me in the end. Not the hundreds of sketches of Christine or the music I had written specifically for her. 

If there had been room within the house and the means to remove the old furniture that had belonged to my mother, I would have liked to have had part of her still. It was all I would ever have of her, but like Christine, it was not salvageable. 

“Erik?”

Madeline opened the bedroom door and startled me as I’d thought for certain I’d locked it first thing in the morning. 

“It’s a lovely day,” she said. 

And what was I supposed to do about that , I wanted to ask her. Step outside and ruin it for everyone else?

“You should come downstairs,” Madeline suggested. “This room is so dark all of the…time. You opened the curtains? And the window?”

“Yes,” I replied. 

“That’s wonderful.”

As much as I desired to be intolerably sarcastic, I merely nodded. 

Outside, the boys shouted to one another. 

“The noise outside doesn’t bother you?” Madeline warily questioned. 

“Should the sound of children be bothersome to someone such as myself?” 

Madeline’s expression changed. “That was not what I was implying.”

“Then I have no idea what you are implying,” I said under my breath. 

Madeline shook her head. “Why, Erik? Why does everything with you need to be an argument or a protest?” 

“Because that is the type of person I am.” 

“It wasn’t always who you were,” she said. “You seem to have forgotten yourself.”

I looked away from her. Over and over, the person I had wanted to be was destroyed. Repeatedly the boy who had been filled with hope and aspirations of a life worth living had been beaten and berated. Day after day I had suffered, both physically and emotionally. 

I could not remember who I had once been because there was no path leading back to that version of myself. Those bridges had long been burned.

Besides, that boy who had been filled with hope was a damnable fool. My fate had been sealed the moment I was born and there was no other road aside from the one I had traveled for years. I had learned time and again that attempting to deviate from that path was useless. 

“Can I bring you anything?” Madeline offered. 

Why? Why would you bother?

I couldn’t bear to ask her that question. I shook my head.

“Do you want your privacy?” Madeline asked.

My skin prickled. The last thing I desired was another moment alone in the room that I had not chosen for myself, had not furnished with my own tastes in mind and had not wanted to claim. 

If anything, I would have taken the bedroom that Meg had selected as it was on the first floor and there was a peony bush directly outside of the window. Instead I was on the second floor–the largest room in the house–trapped like a bat away from everyone else. 

But how does one ask a friend–-a friend from long ago–-to stay? How does one request company without presenting themselves as in desperate need of companionship? How does one say yes, I would like you to stay with me because I cannot bear another moment of my own company? Because I have been miserable for so long and I cannot fathom one more second of this loneliness? 

I didn’t know how to say how I felt without saying too much. All I knew was how to push away the only person I could call a friend. 

“You have to tell me what you want,” Madeline said. 

I stood with my back to her, staring at the street below that was now vacated of children laughing and playing. 

Madeline had always known what I needed, most often before I realized what I lacked. She had always been incredibly intuitive, the sort of person who could look at the girls in the dance troupe and recognize who required additional praise or who needed more guidance. She had always known my moods as well, the subtle changes between my disposition to be sullen and when there was something truly amiss. 

When I was younger, she seemed to know when I’d had a particularly bad evening of nightmares, when I was frightened to death of closing my eyes because the terrifying image of my father would return and stalk me through dream after dream until I was hyperventilating and inconsolable. 

“You may leave,” I replied. 

Madeline would disregard my words and choose to stay, I knew. She always did. No one else saw through my charade quite like Madeline. For so many years she had been my mother, sister, and only friend. With her guidance, I would find my way back to the person I was meant to be–whoever he was. I wasn’t sure how, but if that part of me existed, Madeline would find him.

I started to speak when the door softly closed and I heard Madeline’s footsteps slowly descend the stairs. 

My heart twisted in my chest, breath catching in my throat. She had left me in the very worst company: my own. 

Chapter 10: Room for Improvement

Notes:

Up next: Erik tries to be something he's never been before: civil

And then: voice lessons for Christine turn a bit more suggestive than Erik expected.

Chapter 10

 

Hours later, after Madeline had abandoned me, I walked downstairs feeling quite sorry for myself. I walked into the study and slammed the door behind me for emphasis, not realizing that Meg was already inside. 

She let out a squeak of surprise and toppled from the stool where she had been standing as she apparently perused the book shelves, which were incredibly well-stocked for a house that had been occupied in such a brief time.

I stepped forward when Meg fell, but I was at too great a distance to do much more than stand there gawking at her. 

“Are you injured?” I asked. 

It wasn’t so much an inquiry of concern, but more of a demand, as if her potentially twisted ankle would be of a great inconvenience to me. It was not at all what I intended, but there was no way of amending my tone.

Meg straightened her hair and her skirt, her lips pursed as she shook her head and released what sounded like a pent-up sob. If she burst into tears, I wasn’t sure what I would do as I was the least-equipped individual for soothing tears. 

“Are you sure?” I asked. My tone remained harsh, which was the exact opposite of what I had intended. 

She nodded pathetically, face crumpled in an attempt to hold back pent-up emotion. She tested weight on her ankle and winced, but still limped forward.

“You should sit,” I suggested, attempting to soften my voice.

I knew how to control my voice, how to sound powerful or as innocent as a lamb. I knew how to be someone I was not, at least when it came to projecting my voice. 

Meg swallowed. “I will be fine,” she said. 

I was trying my damnedest to be cordial. Why in the hell would Meg not allow me to be cordial?  

“Sit,” I said. 

She was too frightened to disobey me. At least that’s what I assumed. Besides, there was only one exit and I was blocking it. She had no other choice than to allow me to be a concerned gentleman and keep watch over her, which I did…

In a way that was increasingly uncomfortable.

Meg sat behind the desk and I remained with my back to the door, observing her in silence. For the life of me I couldn’t think of a single thing to say that would lessen how awkward my presence became. 

I’d already asked how she was, so there was no need to ask again. 

I couldn’t ask her how she had fallen as I had surprised her and she had lost her balance. 

What, then, was I supposed to say to her? 

“There is no need for you to be uncomfortable,” I said. 

“I’m not uncomfortable,” Meg replied quietly, folding her arms around her frame. 

That was an outright lie. Her posture revealed the truth and it was the opposite of what she claimed. 

“I’m not going to harm you,” I said, forcing a smile. 

From the mirror across from me I could see my own hideous reflection. I still couldn’t wear the mask, thus displaying unimaginable horrors to Meg Giry, who appeared petrified. 

I should have taken more time to practice smiling, I thought in hindsight. My expression was in no way welcoming or comfortable. Indeed, it looked somewhat painful, which I supposed it was as my cheek still hurt from being struck with Madeline’s cane.

And now you should stop smiling, you idiot , I said to myself, slowly looking away. 

“May I ask what you were searching for on the shelf?” I asked. 

“Uh…” Meg eyed the shelves. “Something to read?”

“Anything in particular?” I asked, abandoning my place at the door to walk across the room toward the shelf. 

She was going to take the opportunity to bolt from the room. Any second now, she would climb to her feet and dash away–or perhaps limp on her twisted ankle. Anything to escape me, this horrendous beast of a man who had now held a second young woman against her will. 

This was not what I wanted, to force her into my company. I wanted her to stay within the study voluntarily, to look at me as she would have anyone else and be able to go about her business without trepidation. 

I looked at Meg again when she didn’t supply an answer and saw her shake her head. “No, just…anything really.” 

She couldn’t look me in the face, which I could hardly hold against her. Even with the mask in place I assumed she didn’t want to look at me, but without it?  I was the creature of nightmares, a subhuman entity that would disrupt her sleep for weeks.

“I do like mysteries,” Meg added. “The Woman in White…”

“Collins, correct?” I asked, linking my hands behind my back. 

Meg blinked at me, seemingly surprised. “You are familiar with Wilkie Collins?”

“Poor Miss Finch, Man and Wife, The Moonstone…I’ve read a few of his novels.”

“I haven’t read the Moonstone yet.”

“Is it on the shelf?” I asked. 

Meg shook her head. “I don’t know.”

I could be of assistance. Taller than Meg and with two working legs, I could search the shelf on her behalf. Then she would see me as more than a monster. Then she would understand I was not a molester of women. 

“I shall look,” I announced in a way that came out as almost theatrical. 

I supposed it was a bit of a performance to present myself in the least-threatening way possible. With my back to the chair where Meg sat, I scanned the shelves, starting with the top shelf. Behind me, the chair creaked and I fought the urge to spin around and insist that she stay put. 

“There is no order to the books, is there?” I asked, finding the titles were not alphabetized or arranged by author. 

When she didn’t answer, I risked a glance first toward the door where I expected Meg to silently make her exit, then to the chair where she sat with her leg held up and straight out. 

“I don’t believe so,” she answered. 

The inlaid bookshelf lined the entire wall, and while it was not completely filled, there were still at least a hundred separate books. 

“Who arranged this?” I asked, becoming somewhat annoyed by the lack of organization. 

“I’m not sure,” Meg meekly replied. 

“Your mother?” 

“I don’t know.”

At last I found a title by Wilkie Collins. It wasn’t The Moonstone, but I felt the need to present something. 

“Here,” I said, twisting my spine. “Have you read this one yet?” 

Meg looked at the cover, then at me. “I finished this one a few months ago, but I could reread it.”

I wasn’t sure if Meg was disappointed, but I certainly was as I continued to look through the titles.

“This is good enough,” Meg said. “Thank you.”

It wasn’t good enough. It would never be good enough. I was not good enough. 

“I will be organizing the books over the next week,” I said. 

Meg stood and nodded, taking the book with her. She said nothing further as she gingerly walked out of the study, leaving the door open behind her. 

It wasn’t the worst exchange that could have taken place, but far from the best. There was room for improvement, I told myself, and I had a dreadfully long way to go in order to improve.

oOo

For three months, Christine took voice lessons every Monday, Thursday and Saturday. She had advanced well and I made the decision to add another day, which pleased her. We met at eleven in the morning, usually for forty-five minutes, and then she went back to the dormitories to prepare for rehearsals or out for an afternoon with the rest of the dancers while I returned to my home or walked up to the rooftop and watched the people of Paris go about their day. 

“Angel?” she asked before she departed one day. 

The casting for the newest production, Hannibal, was two weeks away. Christine was not yet prepared for a larger role, but I hoped that by the time the winter opera, Il Muto, began casting the parts that she would at least have the opportunity for a solo. La Carlotta would not be unseated quite yet, but the lead soprano was in desperate need of competition as she was becoming incredibly lazy and intolerable to the rest of the cast. 

The timing was perfect. We were reaching the one year mark of her lessons and the audition would be a reward for her hard work. I assumed she had stopped me to ask about what she should sing when she had her solo.

“Yes, Christine?” 

“Can you see me?”

“Yes, I can see you.”

Christine stared at her reflection in the mirror. “How are you able to see me?” Her gaze flitted back and forth, from the top of the mirror to the bottom and then paused, looking directly at me. “Through the mirror?”

She couldn’t see me, of that I was certain as I had examined the mirror dozens if not hundreds of times in all different light conditions. As long as the hall where I stood was relatively dark, she would not be able to view me as I was able to view her. 

“Are you in the glass?” she asked, reaching out to tap the surface with her index finger. “Is that where you live? Between heaven and earth where you travel in a sheet of glass that is inlaid into the chapel wall?” 

I hesitated to answer, unwilling to give up too much information. 

“What would happen if I broke the mirror?”

Alarm zipped through me. “Do not break the mirror.”

Christine turned from me and grabbed a candlestick, removing the taper. “What if there was a crack? Would you be able to come through then?”

“Christine–”

“Would it hurt you if the glass were to shatter?” she asked, her gaze filled with intrigue. 

My breath hitched and I found myself unable to gauge her tone. 

“Do you want to hurt me?” I asked. 

An agonizing moment passed while Christine stood before the mirror, candlestick gripped in her right hand. Her knuckles had gone white from how tightly she grasped the brass, a peculiar look on her face. I was certain the answer was yes, she wanted to see what would happen and wasn’t concerned if it harmed me.

“Christine,” I snapped. “Put the candlestick down. Now.” 

She defiantly stood her ground. “It isn’t fair that you can see me, but I cannot see you.”

“For the time being, you are not meant to see me,” I told her, attempting to remain calm.

“Why?” 

“Because it isn’t the right moment yet.”

Christine lifted her chin and considered my words. “When will it be the correct time?” 

“When you have reached your full potential,” I explained. “Once you are prepared to become the principal soprano, we shall celebrate. Together.”

At last Christine smiled in agreement. “You and I will be together?”

My heart hammered in my chest. No one had ever wanted to be with me, but Christine stared directly into my eyes, the eyes that I knew she could not possibly see, as if it was all she could ever desire. No one had ever dared to look at me with such adoration. I didn’t care that she couldn't really see my masked face; the way she looked at me was enough to sate my heart.

“We will be together physically?” she asked. 

My mouth went dry, the pit of my stomach awakened with the most delectable sensation. Physically together, the two of us…

“Like…like husband and wife?” Christine clarified. “Man and woman? Lovers?”

I had not thought of Christine in that capacity. I hadn’t been able to imagine us physically in the same room, face-to-face much less flesh to flesh. Once she proposed the idea, I swallowed and looked away, caught off-guard by this unexpected inquiry. 

Was that what she wanted? 

“Is it possible for an angel and a woman to be together in that way?” Christine asked. 

I was struck speechless by her inquiry. 

My fondness for Christine was that of an angel to a beloved, wayward soul, one in need of protection and guidance. I would have been satisfied for a lifetime to be at her side whenever she needed companionship. I would have relished my role as her angel, the keeper of her secrets, a beacon in the night when her heart was troubled. 

But now the idea of something much deeper, much more intimate, was presented and it was all I could think about. My arms around her, my lips to hers, our hips…my God, I could picture her pressed to me, the urgency of our needs.

“Anatomically, yes,” I said at last. “We would be able to be intimate. If that is what you wanted…”

“That is what I want then.”

She rendered me incapable of rational thought. I felt all of the blood in my body rush to one particular, throbbing area. The roaring through my loins was so unexpected and almost painful in nature, this sudden yearning I felt for her that descended out of nowhere. 

If the opportunity rose, so to speak, if she desired me in that way, then of course I would want to…

Make love to her... 

I had all but given up hope that I would ever have someone in an intimate fashion, but Chrstine? Christine was different. Christine came to me and we spent hours together each week. If I were to finally lose my virginity, it would undoubtedly be perfect with her. 

“We shall discuss this later, once you are further into your studies,” I said hoarsely. “I will speak to you tomorrow, Christine. Good day.”

I turned and briskly walked down the hall, my pulse racing, my soul ignited with quite the passionate fire. The most male parts of me wanted to be one with her most feminine body, to lay with her in bed for hours, touching, tasting, teasing until we were both unable to be apart for another moment, our bodies made as one until at last our needs were mutually sated. 

I began to imagine us tangled in each other’s arms, the pleasure of her flesh to mine, the exquisite sighs and moans from both of our joined bodies. 

For most of my life I had expected to remain celibate. If I indeed wished to lose my virginity, prostitutes were a possibility, but the thought of being with a woman who hitched her skirts up to her belly and spread her legs for payment sounded degrading not only for the woman who made her living entertaining men, but for me as the nameless client rutting with a stranger who would not tell me her real name. 

If I were to have a partner, if I were to experience what it was like to make love, I wanted the moment to be special. I wanted to be with someone who had wanted me as much as I wanted them. 

That had never been possible, not in my wildest dreams, and I had accepted that I would not wed, father children, or have a family of my own. It was not the life I wanted, but what I had come to terms as being my fate. 

After surviving a wretched childhood and escaping certain death in Persia, I should not have desired more than I had received. I should have been content with my home, my salary, my music, and the companionship Christine Daae offered. 

But I was never satisfied. I was insatiable, wanting more than I’d been given and more than I deserved. 

Perhaps I did not deserve Christine Daae, but if she wanted to give herself to me, if she asked to be my lover, then I would open the mirror, take her by the hand, and lead her into my world, surrounding her with passion and music, the likes of which she would never experience with any other man. 

“I am no ordinary man,” I said under my breath, thrusting the cellar door open as I returned to my lakeside abode and pulled off my coat. 

My clothes were scattered everywhere, but I paid no mind to the trail of items left in my wake. I sat on the edge of my bed, ravenous for relief from the swell of desire that made it impossible to think of all else. 

I imagined Christine mounting me, the thrust of her hips to mine, the feel of her lips and her breaths, her bare, smooth flesh beneath my greedy hands. I imagined my fingers tangled in her thick hair, the two of us panting for each labored breath, the urgency and need undeniably strong.

The buildup came fast and the pleasure that followed left me breathless. My hips jerked, body spasming as the fantasy came to a satisfying end. Eyes closed, I licked my lips and fell backward onto the mattress, my breaths still hard and fast. Soon, the pleasure would be shared. Soon, the fantasy would be reality and Christine would be mine, just as she had suggested. 

“I am your angel,” I whispered. “I am your Angel of Music.”

Chapter 11: Trapped

Chapter 11

 

It took an afternoon and evening to completely reorganize the bookshelf. I committed myself to the task, which was the first truly satisfying thing I’d done since writing Don Juan Triumphant.

Madeline came into the study just as I finished and by that time I had almost forgotten how wounding her departure had been the previous day. 

“You’ve been in here for quite some time,” she observed. 

“Whoever the hell put the books on these shelves is an idiot,” I groused. 

“Are they?” Madeline asked. 

“Was it you?” I asked. Quite frankly, it wouldn’t have surprised me. I just wasn’t prepared to say as much to Madeline’s face, not when she had her fist wrapped around the head of her cane. 

“No, it wasn’t me,” she said. “The previous owner of the house is responsible.”

“What a fool,” I said under my breath, taking a seat at the desk with the copy of Moonstone I’d finally located.

“Fool? He was generous to leave the collection of books behind.”

“I am positive I could afford books,” I groused. 

“Still…”

“What an absolute bastard and a fool. May he rot in hell.”

“Quite brazen to call Charles Garnier a fool,” Madeline said. “Not to mention the rest of your words.”

“Well, he is a talented architect who doesn’t know how to organize a bookshelf. He must have his head firmly up his–”

“Erik!” Madeline admonished. “Such language!” 

“My apologies for speaking my mind in my home,” I grumbled.

Unexpectedly, my words seemed to please Madeline, who lifted her chin and smiled at me. “I am glad you are feeling at home.”

“That’s…that’s not what I meant,” I argued. 

Madeline motioned for me to sit, which I did for the sole purpose of hoping my obedience would mean that she joined me. I took the high back chair and to my relief she sat beside me and continued to look at me with approval. 

“Do you like the house?” she asked.

No was on the tip of my tongue. It was too quiet in this particular part of the city, too peaceful. The fabric walls were tasteful, but not to my liking as they were far too detailed and I found the pattern distracting. 

The bed was larger than I would have preferred and far more comfortable than anything I’d previously had, yet I constantly found myself on the very edge. 

The staircase was fine, perhaps a bit narrow. The wood details throughout were remarkably crafted, but I had no intention of visitors so it wasn’t about to impress anyone. 

The stained glass windows in the dining room were lovely, but then I couldn’t see outside unless I stood. 

I did approve of the three separate desks; one smaller in my bedroom, two larger in both the study and the library. The paper stock was also of higher quality than was probably necessary, but I did appreciate the finer things in life. 

“It’s fine,” I answered at last, quite begrudgingly. 

“You can always change what you don’t like around the house.”

The part of the house I liked least was myself living within the confines, existing above ground when I had spent so many years lingering and languishing in darkness, perpetually alone. There was no painting over what I loathed, no repairing the man I had always been.

“I do like the windows,” I said. “The sunlight is quite pleasant.”

I had spent more hours than I could count merely staring at the clouds against a blue sky, marveling at how the warmth of the sun felt against my bare flesh. It was a sensation I'd almost forgotten about entirely, given how I had lived like a rat for years.

Alone in my room I had removed my overcoat, rolled up my sleeves, and unbuttoned the top two buttons of my shirt simply to feel the sunlight against my skin. 

It felt forbidden for a creature of darkness to gaze out an open window at the sunlight, a pleasure that I should not have experienced.

And yet I found myself content. Perhaps not quite satisfied, but content nonetheless. 

“You are allowed to be happy, Erik,” Madeline said softly as she leaned forward.

Breath held I waited for her to place her hand over mine, to touch me in a way that I’d always found comforting. 

“I don’t know what that would feel like,” I replied. 

“I imagine it feels like doing things that you love. Music, perhaps?”

“I believe I am done with music.” 

Madeline continued to study me in silence. Unable to wear my mask still due to the swelling on my cheek, I felt naked before her, exposed in a way that had always been shameful. Somehow, Madeline had always found a way to accept me despite the ugliness directly in front of her. 

“Done? What do you mean you are done?”

“I mean to say that I cannot imagine composing ever again,” I answered. “I think I am…crippled.” 

“Crippled?” she exclaimed. 

“Composing is a waste of time.”

Madeline gasped as if she wished to inhale all of the air within the room. “ A waste of time ?”

“Do you intend to parrot everything I say?”

“Everything?” 

She slyly smiled back at me, amused by the way I glared at her.  

“How could you say that music, of all things, is a waste of your time?” 

“What have I done with my life? With my music? I have written a single opera and that was a complete nightmare. I have wasted all of this time and for what?” 

My questions were purely rhetorical, but Madeline huffed and shook her head. “You worked tirelessly on your music. It was hardly a waste of time.” 

“Everyone hated it,” I said. 

And everyone hated me as well. 

“Not everyone hated it,” Madeline assured me. “I thought it was innovative.”

I scoffed. “You are trying to spare my feelings,” I muttered. 

“I’ve always been honest with you when it comes to your music.”

“You most certainly have not,” I argued. 

“I most certainly have.”

“Name one piece of music that I wrote and you disliked.” 

Madeline briefly looked away from me. “I can hardly name all of your music, much less one composition that I thought was lacking.”

“Lacking?” That felt far more insulting than a general dislike. “What have you found lacking?”

“How do you expect me to do that?”

“Is there such a long list that you are incapable of compiling it?”

“No, that isn’t what I’m saying. It’s been a while since I’ve heard any of your music. I don’t believe I am able to remember specifics.”

“How utterly convenient,” I muttered. 

“Perhaps you should write something new,” Madeline suggested. 

“And perhaps you will find that lacking ?”

Madeline snorted with laughter. “Your sense of humor remains the same.”

I was not attempting to be humorous. “My apologies,” I muttered. 

“I’ve always found your humor to be one of your best qualities,” Madeline said, “and do not say that you have no good qualities,” she added. “You’re a wonderful composer, a gifted musician, and you have an excellent sense of humor.”

Often I thought of myself as solitary, completely removed from all of society. There were few reasons for me to believe otherwise as one glance at my face and other people shrieked in horror and turned away as if the scars to my flesh were capable of physically harming them. 

A monster, a beast, the devil, a living corpse…

That was what the world thought of me–aside from Madeline, who thought of me as a musician, a composer, and someone with a good sense of humor. 

Over the years, Madeline had been kinder to me than anyone else, and despite that, she had still struck me in the face with her cane.  

“Mother, do you want– Oh! I didn’t realize you were down here still,” Meg said as she walked into the library. 

“I found the book,” I said to her. “The one you haven’t yet read.”

“The Moonstone?” Meg blinked at me. “You were still looking for it?”

“No, I wasn’t still looking for it,” I unintentionally snapped. “I came across the book while I was organizing everything else.”

Meg took a step back from me, her hand on the doorframe. She was truly the embodiment of a startled fawn and I must have appeared no different than a wolf preying upon her. 

“I found the book while organizing the shelves,” I explained, attempting to sound more passive. “I thought you might still be interested in reading it.”

To my surprise, Meg smiled. “I am. Thank you.” 

“What were you asking, my dear?” Madeline inquired. 

“I was going to try a new recipe,” Meg said. “I have quite a lot of rosemary if you wouldn’t mind roasted rosemary chicken.”

Madeline consulted me. “Would you prefer something else for dinner?”

Quite frankly I was surprised Meg provided food for me at all. “I have no preference,” I said. 

I regretted my tone as well as my words. 

“I shall eat whatever is provided,” I said in an attempt to amend my words. It was still quite lacking, but I didn’t know what else to say. 

“Unless it’s been poisoned,” I added. 

Meg blanched. “Why would I…why would you think I would do that? I would not poison anyone.”

“I–I don’t,” I stammered. “I didn’t mean to imply that you would.”

So much for an excellent sense of humor. Meg clearly thought I was deranged. 

“A jest,” Madeline said. “Erik doesn’t think you would poison him. It’s just his dry sense of humor.” 

“Oh. Alright. My apologies,” Meg said before she turned and walked out of the room. 

Absently I touched my bruised cheek. It was mostly healed, but still a bit tender and I had not attempted to don my mask, not that it mattered in the house as Meg and Madeline were the only two occupants and they’d bore witness to my visage every time I stepped out of my bedroom. 

“You should write something,” Madeline said. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“While Meg is preparing dinner, you should write something. Then you can play it after we finish eating.” 

“You want me to write an entire composition and perform it in under four hours?”

Madeline shrugged. “You could play a new  composition while Meg is still cooking.”

I laughed louder than was appropriate. “In under three hours? Yes, certainly, I’ll just write a symphony in three hours, simple as that.”

“You could write a waltz if you wanted to,” Madeline assured me. “But I understand if you are not interested. As you said, it was previously a waste of your time.”

“It was,” I assured her. 

“I believe you.” 

My mind was already swiftly at work without paper and pen in front of me.

Three hours was doable, but anything under that was a challenge. 

I was in desperate need of a challenge and the gratification that came with creating music.  

oOo

 

I assumed that Christine and I were both unspoiled by the hands of previous lovers, thus I wanted our mutual first time together to be special. 

For hours I scoured different mail order catalogs, searching for the perfect night gown for her, silk pajamas for me, and matching robes. I had a list of new pillows and bed sheets, a selection of comforters and various other items that would enhance our experience. 

More than luxurious linens and clothing, however, I wanted to satisfy her physically, giving her pleasure so deep and fulfilling that I would be not merely her first, but her only. Two lovers, forever entwined, neither of us ever seeking out satisfaction in the arms of another. 

I could not fail in this respect. I had to be her Don Juan, triumphant when it came to our first night together–and every night thereafter. My life would revolve around music and pleasing Christine.

A lifetime, I mused. She would be with me for a lifetime, and that life together would officially begin once she was prepared to unseat La Carlotta and take her rightful place as the lead soprano. 

Her transformation would obviously not be overnight as we had been working on her vocals for several months. Realistically I had assumed it would take patience and time for Christine to evolve into the best soprano Europe had ever witnessed. I could already see her improving little by little, her voice becoming stronger despite her still being quite unsure of herself.

While I had all the time in the world to watch her grow, I was starting to lack patience and so did Christine. Two impatient people expecting swift success made for several frustrating lessons in a row, and on multiple occasions the two of us stormed off.

Neither one of us was willing to be the first to apologize. For the most part, I felt as though Christine was fairly unreasonable with her expectations while she thought I was asking her to perform the same exercises over and over again. 

“We will move forward once you have mastered what we are working on this week,” I reasoned. “Then we shall proceed.”

“You are holding me back,” she snapped. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“I said you are holding me back,” she said through her teeth. 

“And why on earth would I do that?” I questioned, hand on my hips, annoyed with her accusations. 

“You do not want me to succeed.”

“Of course I do. That is why I am here.”

“No. You want me trapped here with you in this chapel for the rest of my life. You do not wish to share me with the world.” 

“Trapped?”

“Yes, caged like a beast for your amusement.”

I took great offense to her insinuation. I had been trapped in a cage as a boy, displayed in a tent along with freaks and exotic animals. I had been beaten into submission every single day for months on end. 

But Christine? She had not suffered in the least and had never been humiliated. She was not a prisoner and I was not forcing her to stay against her will. 

“You are free to leave as you desire,” I said. 

“Fine!” She turned on her heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind her, much to my surprise. 

“Chris–You insolent little…” I shook my head. Christine was nineteen and far too old for such outbursts, which were becoming more frequent as we advanced in her tutoring. 

With a sigh, I started to walk away. Everything would settle down once we were progressing further into her lessons, I assured myself. This was nothing more than a small bump in a much longer road stretched out before us. Once we had survived this small setback and moved on to the next lesson she would be happier and more confident. 

The next casting call was still a few weeks away and I was certain Christine would earn a more prominent role on the stage at the next audition as long as she set her mind to it and put aside her pride. 

Then, once she was cast with a solo, a bigger role for the following opera would be hers and then we would finally be able to stand before one another. That was when everything would change for the better, when she would see that I had her best interests in mind all along. 

She was a bit young for the part, being that she was twenty years of age, but I was certain she could have been an excellent understudy for the role of The Countess in Il Muto . As long as Christine applied herself rather than complain, she would be well on her way to next season’s most celebrated performer. 

“Angel?” I heard Christine call out as I reached the end of the hall. “Angel are you still here?”

It pained me to ignore her, but I had no intention of returning to the chapel for the remainder of the day. I had the rest of our lives to plan and would stop at nothing to achieve that joyous future together.

A few more weeks, I reasoned. A few more weeks and she would be cast in the next opera, we would be in my home dressed in our silks and then…

Then we would be undressed and I would take her gently into my arms and at last be her lover. 

I had to be patient. 

 

Chapter 12: Find Yourself

Notes:

Little does Erik know, things are about to change.

Chapter 12

 

There had been rumors of the Opera House manager retiring from the theater for quite a few years.

Back when I had first called the Opera Populaire my home, there had been two men who were business partners, but one had been gone for quite some time and I hadn’t been that interested in learning why or what had become of the other manager. 

Numerous times, Poligny, the remaining man who thought he was in charge, had threatened to quit on the spot, but his short-lived tantrums always resulted in him returning the following day, albeit often begrudgingly. 

I quite enjoyed his flustered performances with his face bright red and veins protruding from his neck and forehead when his temper got the best of him. The man was positively meant for the theater, and sometimes I doubted he was meant to linger behind the scenes. He may have been the best actor in the whole damned building. 

There was much I liked about Poligny. His payments were timely, which I appreciated as I detested procrastination when it came to monetary transactions.  

While Poligny and I had never met face-to-face, I had always felt as though if we had the opportunity, we would have gotten on well. He had quite the cutting sense of humor and dry wit, which I appreciated. At least under different circumstances, had he not been depositing twenty thousand francs into my account on a monthly basis, I was certain we would have had many enjoyable conversations. 

Once or twice I had heard him mutter that he had no idea what in the hell a ghost spent twenty thousand francs on every thirty or so days, and that he hoped I was living like a foolish king. 

My expenses were few, and I rarely looked at my account despite the monthly statements mailed to a post box, the contents of which were delivered to the Opera House, along with the rest of my post, at the mail slot by the delivery door under the name “Kire”. 

As far as I was aware, no one had ever questioned who was the recipient. The less they inquired, the better, and I was somewhat under the impression that most of the staff assumed that ‘Kire’ was the house boy that served the Opera Ghost, never suspecting that the ghost had no one to serve him.

I almost considered telling Poligny that he could skip my next payment when the rumors of his retirement were accompanied by an official date. My charitable disposition was, however, fleeting once it was clear that he would be replaced by two gentlemen who had never managed a theater. 

It seemed in my best interest that payments seamlessly continue to prevent confusion and to assert my position as the true manager of the theater. They were little more than puppets to me and I would make it known that at any time I deemed fit, their strings could be cut.

For the most part, I'd been a benevolent king in my musical domain. I offered my suggestions for the upcoming season as to what I wished to see performed, and if my gentle suggestions were not considered, I responded in a slightly more firm manner. 

If that didn't work, I left more insistent notes, some of which I suppose could have been seen as threats, which were completely avoidable if I received their immediate compliance in the matter. 

They were fortunate I ruled in a gentle manner. I was certain few others would have done the same if asking more than once for their rules to be followed.  

Given that there were two inexperienced men taking the reins from Monsieur Poligny, I decided it was best to introduce myself and set forth the ground rules of how our business relationship would be conducted and what I expected of them coming into my theater.  

As much as I would have liked to have considered Poligny a friend, I still thought of him as an ignorant fool, one who would not instruct his successors on how I preferred to conduct our dealings. There was a decent chance he had failed to mention me at all, hoping that my earthly bound spirit would finally waltz toward the light, allowing the new managers to run the theater as they saw appropriate.

Ah, Poligny. You absolute fool. You will be seen as the predecessor who duped two unsuspecting gentlemen into signing a contract for an opera house that would never truly belong to them. 

The theater was dark and quiet when the carriage pulled up to the front steps.  I had been on the rooftop overlooking Paris around ten in the evening on a Monday when the sight caught me by surprise. 

There had been no meetings scheduled as I checked Poligny’s office at the end of the day when he was home with his wife and child the couple had unexpectedly welcomed a few years earlier.  I couldn’t help but feel quite sorry for that poor girl born to a man in his sixties and a mother who looked a very haggard forty. 

At ten on a Monday night, Poligny should have been in bed, dreaming of his retirement and how he would become the bane of his wife’s existence when left to toil around the house all day. 

Instead, he was receiving Moncharmin and Firmin, whose names I had learned by searching Poligny’s office. One of them had inherited a very large sum of money from a dead relative and had put a decent portion into the purchase. The other one? It appeared he had come along for the experience. 

He was definitely about to have the experience of a lifetime. I would be certain of it. 

With an aggravated sigh at their unannounced visit, I descended the rooftop stairs, hurried down the hall, and to the office where the three men were in the midst of exchanging pleasantries. 

“Why so late, Poligny? And on short notice?” one of them asked.

“Because sometimes unannounced visits prevent eavesdropping.” 

The office walls were terribly thin, which I appreciated as it allowed me to listen in with ease, however, I was a bit winded from running down the stairs and feared they would be able to hear me gasping for my next breath.  

“Eavesdropping? From whom?”

“From the ghost,” Poligny said. 

Both new managers roared with laughter. I was not impressed with them thus far. 

They discussed rehearsals, with one of the new managers insisting that they attend immediately while the other wanted to look through financial records and see where the theater stood as far as profits.  Thankfully they were both too preoccupied with talking to hear me fighting for my life behind the wall, each breath still labored like I’d sprinted the length of the city. 

One man asked if there was time to change the upcoming shows to a different schedule as he disagreed with one of my selections while the other kept asking about the twenty thousand francs deducted the first of every month. 

I smiled to myself as Poligny dodged both questions. Perhaps he wisely sensed the Opera Ghost was near and wanted me to have the opportunity to properly introduce myself when the new managers were officially announced. 

From everything I overheard, it sounded as though the Opera Populaire would officially change hands on Thursday, five days before the opening of Hannibal. 

There was not much else of interest that they discussed for the next twenty minutes, and since I was bored by their exchange, I departed from the hall and returned to the rooftop, which had long since been my solace. 

I sought Apollo’s wise counsel on a clear night, and instead found unexpected company. 

Madeline Giry sat on the stone bench in the midst of the rose garden, feet scraping against the gravel.  She looked like a statue in the dark, and I almost regretted disturbing her. 

Madeline inhaled once she saw me at a distance, her smile swift and pleasant. 

“Erik,” she said. 

It came as a relief to hear her speak my given name. For what felt like an eternity, I had only been called The Phantom or The Opera Ghost.  With each passing day, I felt less real and more like a myth. 

“Madeline,” I said warmly.  

“How are you?” she asked. 

Lonely came to mind.  Bored as well.  Missing my closest friend. My only friend, really.  

“Well,” I said, assuming she knew it was a lie. “How are you?”

She briefly looked away.  “Worried.”

“About?” 

It had been many long years since we had confided in one another. In my younger days, I had wanted nothing more than to have Madeline’s trust, for her to tell me everything on her mind. Obviously she knew whatever she said to me would go no further, unless there was some spirit of the underground lake hanging on my every word. 

“The theater,” she said.

“Under new management?” I asked. 

Madeline didn’t appear surprised that I was aware of the Opera Populaire changing hands.

“Of course you were aware,” she said.

“I know everything.”

“Mostly everything,” she corrected. 

I searched her face, my eyes narrowed. “You have information that I do not?” I questioned. 

Madeline sniffed. “No, I would not say that.”

“What would you say, then?”

“The new managers have a patron,” she said.

The theater had plenty of patrons, many of which donated large sums of money either on a monthly or yearly basis. The ten largest donors had their names in very large print in every program, the next twenty-five in slightly smaller print, and so on. 

“And what is so special about this particular patron?” I asked. 

“It’s Comte Philibert’s son.”

I raised a brow. Comte de Chagny had been a long-time supporter of the arts, along with his wife. The two of them had passed away years ago, but I had never forgotten the entire brood of children led by their parents in the theater. 

They had always been a sight to behold: one older brother, two sisters, and another brother to round out the family, all of whom appeared perfectly behaved and respectful.  

The Comte and Comtess were rare parents who spent the majority of their time alongside their children rather than leaving the rearing to nannies and tutors.  I had been exceptionally envious of the entire family every time I saw them walk into the theater and to their private box.

“Philippe?” I asked. “Taking his father’s place at last?”

Madeline shook her head. “Not Philippe. The younger one.”

“I cannot recall his name,” I said. For the life of me, I could never remember hearing the youngest of the four  called anything aside from ‘the baby’ or ‘the boy’. 

“Raoul,” Madeline reminded me. “He has taken over the de Chagny estate and all of the responsibilities.”

Ah yes, baby Raoul. I hadn’t seen him in years, since he had been perhaps seven or eight years of age. If I was correct, he must have been in his twenties by now, same as Christine. 

“Where is his brother?” I asked.

“Probably at a brothel.”

I almost choked on my own saliva. “How delicate.”

Madeline sighed heavily and patted the bench for me to sit beside her, which I did. 

“I’m too tired to be polite, Erik,” she said. 

“You look…”

She shot me a look that silently instructed me to choose my words carefully. 

“You are as radiant as ever.” 

Madeline smiled back at me. “You look well yourself,” she said. 

Unexpectedly she reached up and smoothed my collar, her knuckles grazing my neck. I smiled back at her, longing for her company. 

“I miss you,” I said suddenly. 

My heart ached for companionship, for the laughter we had once shared and even for the arguments. She had been my family for years and I wanted to feel that closeness again. 

Madeline met my eye and frowned. “I miss you as well.” 

I wanted to ask that she come down to the cellar and visit me as she had so frequently when we were younger. I wanted to tell her that I was making progress on my opera and wanted her to be the first to hear it. 

Instead I merely looked at her, knowing we were at the end of our friendship, that it had been dying slowly for years and the condition could not be reversed. We had grown apart and I was too ashamed to ask her what I could do to repair our relationship.  

“Would you care to meet me here Thursday morning? Everyone else will be preoccupied with the–”

“Yes,” I said before she finished speaking. “Yes, I absolutely would love to meet you here on Thursday.”

“Nine?”

“Yes,” I said, nodding readily. I would have been there at dawn if she requested I meet her at sunrise. “Thursday at nine.”

Her hand gently slid over mine and I shivered.  Perhaps our friendship could still be revived and I had been cynical to think it was dead. 

“I look forward to seeing you then, Erik,” she said to me. 

“As do I, Madeline.” 

oOo

 

In the weeks that followed the Opera House disaster, Madeline attempted to keep the newspapers from me. She hid them in various places around the house and I retrieved them, much to her dismay. 

I wanted to read the news, to see what had been my doing, to thoroughly punish myself mentally for causing the worst tragedy in Paris’ history–at least when it came to single-handedly destroying the city. I was a notorious monster who had done notoriously monstrous things. 

Aside from the Opera House destruction, I also wanted to read about Christine, whom I was certain had to be mentioned in the paper as well considering, well, everything. 

Day and night I wondered if she was well and if she remembered our final kiss. I swore I could still feel the heat of her embrace and the soft warmth of her lips to mine. Given the circumstances, I didn’t have the greatest clarity of that final moment with the only woman I could ever love, but I grasped firmly to what remained. 

I had loved her with every bit of my heart and soul, recalling with fondness the moments we had shared in the chapel before she ever saw my face. I thought of our lessons–the good ones far outweighed the tumultuous meetings where she thought I held her back. 

She truly had the voice of an angel, a most ethereal and clear instrument that I had helped her hone over the last two years.  

Perhaps one day Christine would look back with the same fondness I had for her and realize that I had only kept her best interest at heart, that I wanted for her to reach her full potential. 

My body ached from my head to my toes, a longing that could not be stifled. Grief was relentless, my solitude heavier than I could ever recall. I wanted to wail like a child, fists pounding the table, feet stomping on the floor. She had left me and I could not bear to think of the rest of my life lived without her. 

Perhaps it was time for my life to come to an end, I cynically thought. What was the use in continuing this misery? Surely there would be no one else in my life, no great courtship or possibility of marriage. Christ, I didn’t even have a flea-bitten mongrel who thought of me as its master. I was alone in every sense of the word. 

I should get a dog , I thought. 

The idea was fleeting, and I scoffed at the image in my head of being dragged down the street by some enthusiastic canine wishing to greet every person we passed, forcing me into interactions with others that could only go terribly wrong the second I opened my mouth. The last thing I needed was to feed, walk, care for and clean up after an animal. 

No, I did not need something to tend to while longing for a different life. I entertained madness.

I glanced at my cup of tea and the stack of blank papers on the dining room table. It was four in the afternoon and the sound of screaming children down the street annoyed me to no end. 

Once again I considered the dog, which would have been drastically easier than a child–and a great deal quieter. 

I had half the mind to close the windows, but the afternoon sun would have made the house blazing hot, therefore I was forced to tolerate screaming brats rather than baking to death. 

Screaming, however, was the least of my worries.

My muse had not returned, most likely because the personified force behind my creativity was ashamed of me and thought I deserved punishment. Surely this was a sign of madness, that I had imagined something that truly didn’t exist as also disapproving of me. 

“Write something,” I said under my breath. “Damnit, you cannot just sit here.”

It didn’t have to be anything worthy of publication, but I needed to at least try to compose something simple. A waltz, perhaps. 

I’d written several pieces of music and played them in the library while dinner was being prepared. Most of the time, when I had an audience, I found myself dissatisfied with the music and promptly discarded the only copy, much to Madeline’s horror. 

Several days had gone by and I was struggling to string even a handful of notes together, but suddenly, the tide turned and I began writing the notes, hearing the song clearly as I jotted down the music as swiftly as my fingers could commit the waltz to paper. 

Halfway through I realized that the composition came easy to me because it was Mozart and his favorite waltz–which in honesty was in triple time, but not a true waltz.

“Damn it,” I said under my breath, rubbing my forehead. “Rot in hell, Amadeus.”

“What on earth did Mozart do to you?” Madeline asked as she suddenly appeared in the dining room. 

I jumped at the sound of her voice and considered cursing her as well.  He wrote a triple time false waltz didn’t seem to be an adequate answer.

“Why are you sneaking up on me?” I grumbled.

“I’m bringing you tea,” Madeline said. “I thought I saw you composing.”

“I’m not composing. I’m–I’m plagiarizing Mozart, the bastard.”

Madeline failed miserably in her attempt to not appear amused. 

“How dare he write music worth copying,” she dryly replied as she filled a cup with tea for me and walked out of the room. 

I had half the mind to ask her to bring me cubes of sugar, which she did when she returned a moment later. 

“Will you sit with us for supper?” Madeline asked. 

No, I wanted to tell her. I want to sit alone in my bedroom and consider my mortality. 

“I need to write,” I answered. 

I fully expected Madeline to argue with me, but she merely nodded and I returned to the paper in front of me, deciding I should just write out the rest of the damnable waltz that was not a waltz and hope that it inspired me to write something original and was actually a waltz. 

“Do you need more ink or paper?” she asked.

“Unfortunately I do not because I haven’t written a single damned original note in weeks.” Her inquiry mocked me. I should have been through an entire ream of paper, but instead I hadn’t managed to fill a single page with my own music. 

“When you do–”

“I will obviously tell you when I am in need,” I snapped. “We are both aware that I will not be able to fetch it on my own as I cannot leave the house without being recognized, now can I?”

Madeline was silent for a long moment. “I’ve removed as many of the posters as I could,” she said. “Every time I am out running errands, I pull down more.”

As much as I appreciated her gesture, Madeline had never truly understood how trapped I felt day in and day out, wary that my appearance would lead to my capture and execution. I had never been able to walk out of the Opera House in broad daylight, wandering the streets or market, enjoying a day in the park or wandering aimlessly in a bookstore, thumbing through various tombs at leisure. 

My time outside of the theater was always spent heavily cloaked and masked with my head down. I only ventured into the city after dark, constantly checking my surroundings. I lived in a constant state of alertness, unable to let my guard down for a single moment out of fear that I would be seen.

“We could leave Paris,” she suggested. 

We?   I wanted to snidely remark. What a fabulous suggestion! You, me and your daughter who will not even look directly at me, frolicking in Saint-Tropez? What an utter delight! 

“We could take a train,” Madeline suggested. “We could go anywhere…”

I looked up at her. “Could I? Could I board a train like you and your daughter? In the middle of the day?”

“Erik, I am trying to find a solution that benefits you.”

“Why?” I asked. 

A single inquiry made Madeline turn from me, and her refusal to answer left me incensed. I was different and she refused to acknowledge my limitations.

“Why don’t you take your daughter, empty my bank account, and disappear from here? Why do you remain in my company? Why do you bring me tea and ink and ask me to eat? What is the point of my miserable existence, Madeline?  Are you here for a front-row seat to my suffering? You’ve held season tickets since the day I arrived. Perhaps the show should end once and for all.” 

“What does that mean?”

“You know what that means.”

Madeline blanched. “You’re going to kill yourself?”

My breath caught. That wasn’t what I meant. At least that wasn’t what I thought I’d meant, but now that Madeline had mentioned it…

Behind Madeline, Meg gasped as she poked her head in through the doorway to the kitchen, wooden spoon in hand with some sort of cream sauce dripping from the end. Her hair was a tousled mess, her apron tied around her waist. 

They were both gawking at me, same as every single person who had walked through a humid, putrid tent to view the sullen, frightened child I had been long ago. 

This time, however, was for a much different reason.

There was still trepidation inside of me, the sharp, knife’s edge of fear that I was truly a monster, one that had Madeline and apparently Meg gravely concerned. 

In that moment I felt like one, a vicious beast refusing the compassion of someone who had once been by my side daily. 

“Please, Erik, don’t do that,” Madeline begged.

“I won’t,” I said, unable to look her in the eye, ashamed of what she must have thought of me.

My bones were weary, my nerves frayed. I sucked in a breath and turned away from the two of them staring at me as if I were on display for their amusement. 

“Tell me why, Madeline,” I demanded. “Why do you insist on a solution? Why must there be…something?”

“Because I want you to be happy, Erik. I want you to find something in your life that is worth living for, to write music, to–”

“To find a different Christine?”

“No.” She turned and looked at me. “To find yourself.”

Chapter 13: Beyond Hope

Ch 13

 

 I wore my best suit, a medium blue overcoat, brocade waistcoat, and a yellow lawn shirt with a blue and yellow cravat. I was a bit overdressed for a morning rooftop visit, but I didn’t care. 

This was Madeline. She had seen the worst of me–at least up until that point–and I wanted to look my best. 

We met on the stairs leading up to the roof and she took my arm, smiling gently at me. I was certain she was aware that I had no contact with others and that her hand resting on my arm was much more of an unexpected delight than anyone else would have realized. 

“You look very nice,” she said as I took a small woven basket from her hands.

“Thank you,” I replied, smiling back at her. “What’s in the basket?”

“You’ll see when we arrive.”

“Not even a hint?” I asked.

“Not even a hint.”

Halfway up to the roof, I felt myself relax. Madeline had saved me from my fate many years earlier, when I was an emaciated, frightened boy of twelve or thirteen on display in the traveling fair. She had led me to the safety of the Opera House when I otherwise would have been executed for strangling the man who had imprisoned, beaten and starved me for ten months. 

Madeline had never said what prompted her to intervene, but I was indebted to her for all she had done for me that day and in the years that followed. 

I pushed the door open to the rooftop and held it open for Madeline, squinting as the bright sunlight hit me directly in the eyes. 

“What a lovely day,” Madeline commented.

I nodded in agreement. The last time I had been on the rooftop it had been late February, bitterly cold, blustery, and miserable. 

Other than the blindly bright sun, June was much more agreeable. We walked across the gravel pathway, past the garden with its stone benches and climbing roses toward the familiar edge of the building where in the past we had spent hours talking while staring down at the city. 

Madeline took her seat on the ledge and I placed the basket between us. While she dug inside, I looked around, surprised that winter had turned to summer. Somehow, I had missed spring. 

“Have you been up here recently?” she asked. “Other than when I saw you earlier in the week.”

“Not recently. I believe the last time was almost four months ago,” I answered. 

“You used to love this place,” Madeline said. 

“Yes,” I answered. “When you would come up here with me.”

My words were not meant to be spoken bitterly, but Madeline frowned at me and I felt as though I had inadvertently lodged my foot in my mouth. 

“I’m very sorry, Erik,” Madeline said. 

I wasn’t sure why she was apologizing and decided to sit in silence rather than question her as I worried I’d immediately say something to upset her. 

“I am well past overdue for paying you a visit,” Madeline apologetically said to me. She leaned forward, placing herself closer to me. “You know that you are always more than welcome to visit me. You know the performance schedule.”

“It’s a bit more difficult to visit you,” I replied. 

Madeline didn’t argue. She handed me a small wooden plate with a half dozen chocolates arranged in a circle and smiled back at me. 

“Sweets?” I said.

Madeline nodded.

“You have always disagreed with my sweet tooth,” I reminded her. 

“Oh, I don’t know about that.”

“I do,” I said. “You’ve always said the amount of sugar I consume is unhealthy.”

“Are you still consuming mass amounts of sugar?” she asked, turning her head to the side as she looked down her nose at me. 

“Of course,” I replied.

To that, Madeline chuckled. “Well, I shall not pass judgement and instead offer you…” she dug into the basket again. “Cookies.”

No matter the amount of time we had spent apart, Madeline still knew me better than anyone. 

“You indulge me,” I said. 

“Yes, because I’ve missed you and wanted to make this morning special,” Madeline replied.

Her words caught me off-guard. Seeing Madeline, having a conversation with another person face-to-face, that was special to me, a moment I would cherish and think about weeks later. 

“How is the ballet progressing?” I asked. 

Madeline appeared surprised by my question. “Do you mean to say you haven’t been watching?”

I took a bite of chocolate to avoid answering at once and shrugged. “You know the ballet has never been my greatest interest.”

Madeline issued a pointed look in my direction. “The same goes for Christine Daae in recent weeks.” 

“Our lessons do not detract from her ability to rehearse the routines,” I assured Madeline. 

Madeline shrugged in response and bit off a small piece of a cookie. “Christine is easily distracted on most days. Her imagination is quite vivid and she is always dreaming about something.” 

“You consider this a fault?” I asked.

“No, not a fault, merely an observation. However, I have noticed that oftentimes her mind is more prone to fantasy than reality.”

“Reality is not always pleasant,” I commented. 

My reality had been hell. Drifting into a world of make-believe and fantasy seemed like a dream come true, a bit of respite from an otherwise bitterly cruel existence.

“True enough,” Madeline agreed, “but outright ignoring what is real and gravitating toward what is fantasy is not always healthy.”

I looked away from Madeline and exhaled.

“Christine has been teased by some of the other girls for her beliefs,” Madeline explained. 

Neither one of us looked at the other, but I felt Madeline staring at me.

“Erik, you know what beliefs I speak of,” Madeline said. 

I sucked on the inside of my cheek and refused to speak.

“Christine is lonely,” Madeline continued.

I was lonely as well and part of that longing for companionship was Madeline’s fault as she had abruptly stopped visiting me years earlier.

“You think I should simply abandon Christine?” I asked.  

Madeline considered my words for a dreadfully silent moment while I recalled the moments Christine and I had shared in the chapel, the conversations that took place on opposite sides of a mirror. 

If she continued her voice lessons, if she applied herself and became more disciplined, Christine was capable of a successful career in the opera. 

But Christine wasn’t always disciplined, nor kind when it came to addressing me. The last meeting for voice lessons had been somewhat of a disaster, but I was willing to take a disaster over complete solitude. 

The truth was, I didn’t care if Christine was impatient or if she grew upset with me. I needed her companionship. I wanted one hour of my day spent engaging with another person and she was the only individual I spoke to on a regular basis.

I needed her and the lessons to occupy my mind as I was having a difficult time coping with the endless hours of being alone. 

For weeks, my nightmares had grown steadily worse, my dreams haunted by my father, the gypsy from the traveling fair, and the months I’d spent in Persia. Whenever I shut my eyes, I found myself transported into my terrifying past, hunted down by the very real demons that crawled out from the back of my mind and surrounded me. 

The only part of my day that I looked forward to was the walk to the chapel and the brief moments when I interacted with Christine. Even if she had a bit of a temper or accused me of holding her back, it was better than being alone and certainly better than the iron grip of nightmares. 

An hour was barely enough, but it was something, and I put all of my focus into planning our interactions. 

Madeline reached out toward me, but paused before she touched my hand. I longed for her warmth, for the gentleness I’d so often been denied, but could not bear to ask for her affection. 

“Erik, I think that Christine is expecting more from you than you are able to give,” Madeline gently replied. Her fingers lingered just above the back of my hand, near, but not near enough. “I think that she may have put you in an unfair position.”

That didn’t matter to me. An unfair position was better than being placed on the wayside or discarded altogether. I would accept unfair over nothing. 

“I worry that unintentionally Christine will take advantage of you,” Madeline continued. 

“You think she will take advantage of me?” I asked incredulously. 

“Yes, I think she’s fully capable of manipulating you and that your best intentions will be taken for granted.”

I narrowed my eyes. “That is your concern? For me?”  

“Of course, I am concerned about you.”

“Why now?” I asked. After all of the years where you acted as if I didn’t exist. When you left me to suffer alone in the darkness while your life blossomed. While I sat waiting for you.

Madeline offered the barest of smiles as if she knew my thoughts and wished to soften the blow. “In truth, I am concerned for both of you, but I don’t want to see you end up hurt by this, Erik. You have gone to great lengths to help Christine with her career.”

Because in time Christine might be able to love me and without a doubt I love her already, I wanted to say. Because loving someone means doing whatever is necessary for them, regardless of how sometimes it hurts. It is worth it. And if it isn't worth it right this moment, eventually it will be. 

Won't it?

I wasn’t entirely sure if that was true, but I was willing to do whatever it took to make Christine a permanent part of my life. I could not imagine my days without her company.

 

oOo

It was late in the night and the wind howled through the open window, the sound not unlike wolves bounding through the shadows. The curtains flapped in the wind, the fabric beating against itself, which would have woken me if I hadn’t already been awake. 

I sat on the edge of the mattress, bare feet on the rug, fists gripping the thick blanket. My mind was erratic, one thought colliding with the next. 

Stop! Stop hurting me…

My heart was in my throat, arms covered in gooseflesh and the hairs on the back of my neck standing on end. 

For more than a week, I had dreams of my father beating me in the cellar, mercilessly pounding on my spine, chest, arms, and head while I desperately attempted to shield myself from his fists. 

I could not have been older than ten years of age and by that time, and the punishment at that time was nearly constant. Hardly a night passed when my father was not angrily sent home, looking for a fight. 

Or rather, looking to take out the last of his anger on someone who could not possibly fight back. That someone was me, and decades later, he was still hurting me, relentlessly stalking me in my sleep. 

My nightshirt was soaked from perspiration, my upper lip beaded in sweat. I shivered in the night air, paralyzed by the images in my mind. 

I should hide, I thought, the logic of a child who had never managed to successfully get away from danger. No matter how I attempted to squeeze behind the table in the cellar or scurry under the stairs and hug my knees to my chest, my father found me. 

No matter how I held my breath and pinched my eyes shut, he saw me. No matter how I attempted to convince myself that this time I was safe from harm, he hurt me. 

Stop! Stop hurting me! 

The sob was already lodged in the back of my throat. I recalled being dragged out by my ankles, cobwebs in my hair, dirt inhaled through my parted, bloodied lips and nostrils. I clawed at the ground, desperate to return to my hiding place, unable to bear being struck again and again. 

I imagined Christine standing watch beside my father, silently observing as he dropped me into the middle of the floor and knelt over me, pinning me in place. 

I imagined the cruelty of his words, the names he would call me, the taunts that I was disgusting, vile, and unwanted. 

Christine, in the heat of her anger, had lashed out verbally in similar fashion. I imagined her watching in perverse fascination, goading my father into striking me harder, nodding in agreement when he told me I was hideous and no one would ever love me, no matter what I did. 

My father was correct. I was beyond hope, I was beyond redemption, and I was beyond ever being loved. 

 

Notes:

Departure from the traditional story. :)

Chapter 14: Stranger Than You Dreamt It

Chapter 14

 

The theater was abuzz with rumors concerning the retirement of the current manager. While Poligny had not officially announced his leave, the theater had always been one for spreading the latest gossip, starting with the ballet, trickling through the costume seamstresses, maids, scene changers, doormen, and so forth. Despite being directly in front of the stage, the orchestra always seemed to be the last in on the rumors. I never understood how they were left out, other than they must have been quite dull.  

The ballet dancers, however, were quite possibly more skilled at networking rumors than performing on the stage. Ever since I’d been a boy wandering the shadows of the theater, I’d learned first-hand how swiftly they were able to convey to the rest of the theater everything from whose husband had a lover on the side to which lover was leaving said husband for someone else. 

Because of the acoustics, I could be virtually anywhere in the theater and overhear the most abominable details. Practically everyone within the Opera Populaire was leading a most sordid life. 

The dancers, all of whom seemed to be sleeping with everyone, were also responsible for shaping the myth of The Phantom of the Opera–or, as I was once called ‘The Dreaded Phantom of the Opera Populaire’. That name had proven to be far too long for anyone to actually use it, for which I was grateful. Dreadful was completely unnecessary, in my opinion.

In those distant days I’d been filled with the unrealistic hope that I could seek honest employment within the theater as a musician or a composer. I would have also settled for constructing sets or stable work merely because I wanted to be involved and earn my keep. 

My place, however, had been chosen for me, and at the age of thirteen, I had become a legend of sorts, a dark entity that people feared.

At first it had not been ideal, and my thoughts on the matter were quite mixed.  I had not wanted to frighten anyone at all as I’d spent ten months on display, subjected to the horrors of the traveling fair and the screams of terror that accompanied me being unhooded six times a day to the screams of a crowd. The very thought made me shiver.  

No, I did not want to be thought of as a blood-thirsty ghost terrorizing people, my detached death’s head being spotted left behind in various parts of the theater. First and foremost, I wanted to be respected while in the deepest parts of my soul, I wanted to be loved. 

With Christine Daae, I had found the love I’d been denied for as long as I could recall. When we were together, I cherished each moment, both good and bad, and when we were apart, I thought of her endlessly. 

It didn't matter that we were separated by the mirror.  It was still close enough for me and maintained the illusion I desired. 

Our relationship was perfect in its imperfections. No two people in love experienced endlessly flawless days and we were certainly not immune from disagreements. 

Still, we returned daily to spend an hour together, with Christine telling me all about her daily routine and me hanging on her every word. Soon enough, everything would change and we could at last be face-to-face. Or, more likely, face-to-mask. I was not convinced that she could fully accept me for what I was without a bit of easing into the situation. 

“I left flowers at Father’s grave yesterday,” she told me. 

Her father was buried at Pere Lachaise, in a beautiful mausoleum with a window where Christine was able to view his casket when she visited and spoke to him. 

She told me that she wished the casket was left open so that she could see her father’s face whenever she desired as she longed to see him again. The very idea made me shiver as I’d thought of my uncle for many years after he had passed away, and the thought of his body rotting and exposed gave me nightmares. I’d barely had to finish burying him and feared I’d not dug a deep enough grave for his body to remain undisturbed.  

“I would lie beside him if I could,” she said. 

I was grateful we were not face to face as her words made me gape in response. I hadn’t expected anything so macabre from Christine, who seemed far too delicate to entertain such thoughts. 

“Angel, are you still here?”

“Yes, my love.”

“Why do you not speak?”

“Your words are unexpected.”

I watched her brow knit. “In what way?”

“You would lie beside a corpse?” I asked. 

Christine considered my question. “Death does not repulse me,” she answered.  “I was with my father when he passed. You were aware of this, were you not?” 

My breath hitched.  “Yes,” I said before too much time passed.  “Yes, of course.” 

“His body was cold when the physician made me leave his side.”

The very thought made me shiver. I thought of my uncle, whom I had buried in the rain, and the feel of his flesh against mine when he was no longer alive, how strange it felt to touch his lifeless body. As much as I had loved my Uncle Alak, I was repulsed by the very thought of a corpse.

“You were not afraid?” I asked.

“No, of course not.  Love does not fear death. Love embraces all. Just because his heart no longer beat didn’t mean that I would be afraid of him.”

I swallowed. My aversion to my uncle’s corpse had lingered for quite some time, overlapping with the moniker that had been forced upon me once I was taken captive in the traveling fair. For almost a year as a young boy, I had been forced to entertain crowds by having my face exposed for the entertainment of others. The gypsies had advertised me as both the Son of the Devil and the Living Corpse.  

I was the terrifying embodiment of death and I was feared like no other. 

In the ten months I was on display, I'd been beaten daily, starved, spit on, tormented and humiliated in ways I chose not to think about in my waking hours.  

I had learned that the world was unimaginably cruel and no one would ever treat me with kindness purely based on how they felt about my appearance.

Because of the scars, I was beyond redemption, a monster who was meant to live in solitude until my final breath. I was a dead thing brought back to life, with rotting flesh and skin cold as ice. 

At least that was how I was billed. In truth I was a sullen child that dreaded every waking moment of my hellish life and wished for nothing more than to be left alone. 

I had never considered anyone, let alone Christine, voluntarily lying with me, a beast of a man whose face bore hideous scars that I was forced to keep concealed.  

Tears pricked the backs of my eyes, my throat tightening with the sudden, undeniable possibilities that had never been tangible before. 

She can love me without fear. She can love me, damage and all. Despite my faults. Despite my shortcomings. Christine will love me because I love her. And because she does not fear dead things like me.

There was no greater gift than the mutual desire to be together, broken yet held together in each other's arms. 

My heart soared to heights I had never imagined. My knees threatened to buckle beneath the overwhelming weight of hope. I could remove the mask and she would not be afraid. 

“Could you love someone imperfect, Christine?” I asked. 

She stared at her reflection in the mirror, at her flawless dark eyes and long lashes, her bow-shaped lips and heart-shaped face.  

“Are you imperfect, my beloved angel?” 

Her tone was light and playful, her eyes twinkling. 

“In your dazzling presence, everyone is imperfect,” I said.  

Her lips parted, hand over her heart. “Perfect?”

“Absolutely without flaws.”

She smiled then, beaming with joy and pride. 

Eventually those words would feel like a mistake.

 

oOo

 

Months had passed since the Opera House disaster. 

Somehow, April has become July and I had only wandered the streets twice, both well after sunset and at a rushed, panicked pace that made the stroll more of a frantic trot that was in no way enjoyable.  

There has been a time when I'd found the excursions delightful and necessary, when the air in the cellars became stifling and I tired of my own dreadful company. 

I never ventured far from the Opera House, finding plenty of entertainment in the theater district that provided a wonderful distraction. Between the street performers and people wandering about, I found myself sufficiently surrounded by all walks of life.  

Given the hour I chose to roam, the streets were quiet, but not desolate.  Only a handful of couples were out walking arm in arm, leaning close to one another. 

And then there was me, as alone as one could be, aching inside with the need for closeness and affection that would never, ever belong to someone so wretched and vile.  

Much as I tried, it was impossible to keep my thoughts from Christine. I wondered if she continued her voice lessons and continued auditioning. I wondered if she still left crowds astonished with her flawlessly pure voice. It would have been a terrible shame if she had given up on her training. 

The playhouses, opera houses, and other small venues that provided entertainment would be letting out in another hour or two, patrons spilling out onto the streets of the city and to their waiting carriages and cabs. 

Most of the plays were over by ten while the operas, depending on the length, could end their performances as late as midnight.

I longed for the ability to take in an opera as often as I desired from my private box, then return to my lakeside home, buzzing with newfound inspiration, and spend the next few hours composing. 

Oftentimes, the inspiration lasted longer than I would have ever imagined and I fell asleep, completely exhausted, at the table that served as my dining area as well as my writing desk.

“How can you possibly sleep until noon?” Madeline had asked me on several occasions, as if it was any of her business what hour I chose to retire for the night or rise during the day. 

“Because I fell asleep at nine in the morning,” I would reply, much to her disappointment. 

Time had meant nothing to me since the age of twelve or thirteen when I found myself living by candle and gas light, far removed from the rest of the world five cellars beneath the surface. 

Strangely, I found myself perfectly capable of sleeping despite the blaze of sunlight assaulting me through the curtains. In fact, I slept quite well with the warmth of light on my face and exposed flesh. 

What I would not have sacrificed for the luxury of enjoying a Sunday morning in the park, no particular destination in mind, my pace a leisurely stroll, accompanied by a lovely lady on my arm.

Of course I pictured Christine accompanying me, radiant as ever. In my dreams I was handsome and deserving of her company, and when she gazed up at me, her beautiful, dark eyes were filled with adoration. 

“Will you play for me later?” she would eagerly ask as we stopped to feed the ducks. 

“Of course,” I would answer, gazing deeply into her eyes. “As long as you promise to sing for me.”

“Sing? But I already sang for you this morning.”

“Once is not enough, my dear. Your voice invigorates me, more vital than the blood in my veins.”

“You flatter me, my angel of music.”

“You sate me, my angel of song.” 

And then Christine would step closer to me and smile. She was beautiful, inside and out, my radiant little angel of song. 

“Anything for you, Erik,” she would say. 

“Anything for you, Christine.” 

We would walk home together, hand in hand, barely able to wait until we were in the music room, me in front of the piano, Christine standing beside it, delicate hand resting on the lid. 

When our hearts were at last satisfied by music, we would then sate each other with the pleasures of our flesh, mutually giving ourselves to one another.

That was what I thought of as I returned home for the night, of the woman who had been mine–all mine, not just once, but twice.

Every time I thought of the intimacy Christine and I had shared, I allowed my mind to twist and bend little memories until, in my dreams, I seized her lips with mine, crushed her body in my arms and left her quivering and begging for more. 

I imagined her whispering my name in the heat of shared passion, of my hands roving down her back and fingers gripping her hips. I thought of her unbuttoning my shirt and trousers, clothing hastily discarded until our bodies were entwined, our needs at last fulfilled in ways neither of us had thought possible. 

Each time I thought of our intimacy, of the way we had become one, I tailored the details ever so slightly. Rather than facing away from me like we were two beasts in a field, she had faced me. Rather than asking me to wind a scarf around my head to prevent her from seeing me, I imagined the two of looking deeply into each other’s eyes. Rather than lifting her skirt, we undressed one another slowly. 

We were shy, but willing in my altered memories. We were anxious, yet loving. We were unsure of what to do, but thorough students practicing the art of pleasure.

The small details of what had actually transpired were inconsequential. Christine had given herself to me, the most precious gift in all the world, and I had offered myself to her. She had accepted me as no one else had ever done before and as I was certain no one else ever would. 

Those moments, those brief memories I had crafted into perfection, left me wanting more. I was aware of my mistakes and missteps and what was needed to earn Christine’s affection. I had to be better for her and for myself.

For the sake of my dwindling music and aching soul, I needed to prove my worth so that Christine would come back to me. I wanted to make my finely tuned memories reality at last.

Chapter 15: The New Patron

Notes:

Staying in the past for this chapter. If you've read the original material, the Opera manager's name will be familiar :)

Raoul de Chagny. 

And to think that when I first heard the news, I was genuinely pleased to hear of the vicomte de Chagny’s return to the theater. 

In hindsight, I should have killed him when I had the opportunity. 

Utterly foolish on my part. If the opportunity arose in the future, I would take it without question.

But there was no turning back.  It was two twenty-two in the afternoon when the three opera managers walked into rehearsals.  I had been sitting in the rafters out of sight, picking at a splinter in my palm that was in need of tweezers to pull it free.  

The three men walked briskly across the length of the wings and toward the stage where a fourth man stood with his hands behind his back.  

I had not taken much notice of him. He was dressed finely enough and appeared to be someone's son or nephew. More likely than not, he was sent on his family’s behalf and would be just as useful as a stage prop as clearly no one knew what to do with him.

Poligny clapped his hands, pausing rehearsals.  I sat forward, reaching into my overcoat pocket while I suppressed a yawn.  

The pleasantries took twenty minutes and nothing of interest was said. How they tried my waning patience with their nonsense.

Get on with it! I thought to myself.  For God's sake, such blabbering!

At last Poligny stated what everyone already knew: he was retiring.  

Far above the stage, I feigned surprise, clutching my chest as I silently gasped as if the news had struck me like a fist to the sternum.  

I rolled my eyes through his lengthy, tear-filled farewell speech, my mind wandering to the point where I almost didn't see Madeline observing me.

Of course she saw me.  No one was aware of my presence quite like Madeline Giry, who knew me better than anyone else despite how little we had spoken to one another in recent years. 

I smiled back at Madeline, an automatic reaction due to years of friendship. She smiled up at me, but swiftly looked away. It was not out of rudeness, I knew. She was keeping others from taking notice.  

Inhaling, I stood, making my way over the stage toward where Madeline stood, slid the cream-colored envelope from my overcoat pocket, and flung it over the edge of the catwalk. 

It dropped faster than I anticipated thanks to the wax seal, which unfortunately broke into many smaller pieces, and I scurried to the other side and out of sight in time to see Madeline retrieve my note.  

My heart was in my throat as I watched the dancers gather close to one another. Christine was off to the side, staring into the vacant theater, while Meg, the youngest in the troupe, looked like her usual wide-eyed terrified self. 

Directly beneath me, the nameless young man stood with his hands behind his back. 

My eyes narrowed.  There was something familiar about him.  Surely he was not the de Chagny boy who was always climbing up his mother’s skirts and into her arms all those years ago. Surely he was not already twenty years of age with a strong jaw and keen eyes. 

But of course he was an adult. Both of his parents had been dead for a number of years and he had returned to the theater, just as Madeline had said. 

I smiled inwardly, marveling at how much he favored his father.  

I had always liked the de Chagny family, admiring both parents and children.  Comte and Comtesse had doted upon their brood of four children who were always marching in a single file line behind their parents: eldest son, two daughters, and finally the baby boy.  

Comtesse de Chagny had been quite ill for many years, and her visits to the theater became less and less frequent as she declined. They had not made her condition publicly known, but given that I was at every performance, I noticed her deterioration. 

It was a terrible sight to behold, a young mother wasting away before her family's eyes. She maintained a brave face throughout her battle, always greeting everyone with dignity and grace. 

Every time I saw Comtesse de Chagny, I was envious of the children, whose mother, by all appearances, loved them fiercely. She straightened collars, dried tears, and retrieved lost dolls dropped along the way. 

“I love you, Raoul,” she would say, clutching her youngest in her arms, kissing him sweetly on the cheek. “My sweetheart.”

What was not to love about her little cherub-faced boy? As a toddler, the youngest de Chagny had white blonde hair, which had turned into a light brown as he aged. 

His parents would have been proud of the man he’d become and the philanthropy he’d continued now as his older brother was not as involved and I assumed his sisters were married off. 

Madeline cleared her throat and opened the envelope I’d dropped onto the stage. Raoul de Chagny straightened his back.

“Gentlemen,” she said, pulling the heavy card stock out of the envelope. “The Opera Ghost welcomes you to his theater.”

“His!” both of the new managers exclaimed. They roared with laughter, which swiftly died out when no one else joined their merriment.

Far above the theater, I smiled to myself, appreciating the way Madeline followed the script with only minimal details, like emphasising the underlined word without being terribly overdramatic. 

“What does that mean?” one of the new managers asked Poligny. 

Poligny, wisely, decided not to answer. He glanced up, but wasn’t looking in the correction direction. Not that it mattered much as he was perfectly aware that the Opera Populaire was my theater. It had been mine for almost twenty years, and we had worked peacefully together ever since the original diva, Cathedra di Carlo, had graced the stage. 

“Poligny!” one of the new managers shouted. “Come now, is this a jest on your part?”

“I will show you the memorandum books before I depart,” Poligny promised.

“Books? What books?”

“The books,” Poligny answered. “The official books of the opera that cannot be ratified.”

“What? I beg your pardon? Why not?”

“Because the book says so in red ink.”

“What does that matter?”

“Oh, it matters quite a bit,” Poligny muttered under his breath. 

“This is an outrage!”

An outrage indeed. Quite frankly, they didn’t know the meaning of the word as far as I was concerned. 

I had amended several clauses in the very large book Poligny kept in his office, adding my demands in red ink, along with a final clause that stated the book could not be edited further until the first of January, Nineteen hundred and forty-eight, at which time I would be approximately one hundred years of age and either close to death or truly a ghost. 

Regardless, I doubted I’d have the strength or desire to continue my demands at that time. 

Playing the part of the ‘Opera Ghost’ had not always been easy; I specifically tailored my impeccable penmanship to a remedial scrawl so that no one would ever think Erik, with his fine writing skills, and the Ghost, with his hasty strokes of the pen, were the same individual. 

Given that I was in my thirties and not yet ready for retirement, there was no reason for that partnership to end just because there was someone else at the carefully constructed helm I had allowed the former managers to believe steered the Opera House in the right direction.  

I kept my eyes trained on the new managers at first, then young Raoul de Chagny. The new managers had gathered around their benefactor as if they wished to protect him.

Please, gentlemen. As if I would harm Raoul de Chagny, I thought with a roll of my eyes.  He was funding the productions, along with around twenty-five other generous and absurdly wealthy donors who provided large sums of banknotes every month and another two hundred or so who allowed a measly ten franc donation either once a month or–pathetically–once a year.  

“We will not stand for this,” one of the managers assured de Chagny.

The young vicomte seemed undeterred and whispered to the manager, palms out as if he could placate the two of them. 

“The Opera Ghost requires his salary at the start of the month,” Madeline continued. She rubbed her nose, gaze flickering up to where I stood. 

If there had been no one else around, I was certain she would have shaken her head or rolled her eyes, possibly both. Nineteen years as the house ghost, with virtually no expenses and wise investments meant I roughly had an account balance of four and a half million francs. Possibly closer to five million, split between several banks, some in Paris, others in England, Denmark, and Finland, to name a few. 

I probably should have checked the latest statements made available to me, but it hardly mattered after I reached one million francs. There was no possible way I’d ever spend it in my lifetime, and despite pleading with Madeline to purchase the little seaside cottage she’d always desired, she refused, stating that the funds were not hers to spend and were ‘hardly’ mine to dole out.

“The opera ghost has a salary!?!” the older of the two managers moaned.

I could have sworn that Madeline was amused by his reaction. “Poligny compensates him every thirty days or so,” she said. “Twenty thousand francs.”

Both managers looked as though their knees were about to give out. Raoul de Chagny appeared amused, whatever that was about. 

“Twenty. Thousand. Francs?” both new managers said at the same time. 

“With a holiday bonus the last three years,” Poligny mentioned. 

That was true. It was quite thoughtful. 

Madeline shifted her weight. “Perhaps you can afford more?” she suggested. 

I pursed my lips tightly together, concerned a laugh would escape and reveal my hiding place. 

“How on earth could we possibly afford more?” one of them asked.

“With the vicomte de Chagny as the newest patron of the Opera Populaire,” Madeline said. 

Several people gasped, including both of the managers. Finally I observed Poligny, who shook his head, fingers pressed to his temples. “Jesus Christ,” he muttered. 

Having achieved the desired response, I turned and walked off the catwalk, descending down onto the side of the stage nearest my exit while everyone gathered around Madeline and the note was snatched from her grasp and read. 

I was almost to the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. 

“That is a good way to get yourself killed,” I warned, lasso poised. 

Madeline held her hand up to her ear, palm flat to the side of her skull. Keep your hand at the level of your eyes.

“Let’s go, Erik,” she said, slipping past me out into the hall, around the corner and to another doorway I was surprised she still knew the location as she hadn’t been to see me in a very long time.
Years, actually. Regrettable years since she had paid me a visit in my home. 

“Where are you going?” I still asked.

“Down to the lake,” she said over her shoulder, giving me no choice but to follow her. 

 

OoO

 

Madeline insisted I serve her tea and biscuits while she removed all of the unnecessary items from the slab of wood I considered my dining room table, placed a light green lace cloth over said table, and added several candles to increase the light. 

“That’s better,” she said with a nod.

“Better for what?” I asked. 

“Company.”

A single word caused my breath to hitch. I had always desired company as well as the opportunity to entertain. To host others–to have friends gathered–was highly coveted and little more than a fantasy I used to torment myself. 

“Make yourself comfortable,” I replied before I briskly walked into the kitchen and put on a kettle. 

With the water warming, I looked frantically around the room. There were not many biscuits remaining as I’d eaten most of them and hadn’t had a chance to procure a new tin from the theater kitchen. There was a half-eaten muffin, two cupcakes that had gone stale and were hard as rocks, and a pie that I had poked my finger into the middle of and eaten. 

I sighed to myself, aggravated that I practically lived like a feral beast, leaving half-eaten food out to grow moldy while sticking my finger into pies like a barbarian. 

Not knowing what else to do, I tossed a block of cheese onto a plate, threw some grapes around it, and peeked into the living area to find Madeline thumbing through one of my compositions. 

“How have you been, Erik?” she asked over her shoulder.  

“As I’ve always been,” I answered, carefully carrying the plate in both trembling hands. “Take that as you will.”

If I succeeded in entertaining Madeline, she would return. I wanted her to return, to see me as she once had. 

Madeline regarded me for a brief moment as she pulled her own chair out and sat. A proper gentleman would have done it for her, but of course I was lacking when it came to being proper and I was no gentleman. 

“I could have…I should have…” I stammered, disappointed in myself and the lack of manners I displayed. 

“Sit with me and do not worry over trivial matters,” Madeline insisted. 

I placed the plate in the middle of the table and realized I hadn’t grabbed additional plates to eat from.

“One moment,” I said. “I need to take the kettle off the stove.” 

Madeline inhaled and reached for a grape. “Thank you.” 

She didn’t really mean it as I had done nothing worthy of praise or gratitude. I was a bumbling fool who had never entertained a single guest and I was going to die a bumbling fool who could not pretend for all of fifteen minutes that I was a decent host worthy of Madeline’s time. 

I removed the kettle, placed it on a silver tray along with two glasses and a pot that stuck to the counter due to the amount of honey dripping down the sides.

“My God,” I muttered. 

This was a disaster, start to finish, an embarrassment that would lead to Madeline laughing in my face. She would never return. In fact, I felt certain that once I walked out of the kitchen she would be gone. 

I’ve known Madeline since I was thirteen, I assured myself. She has seen the absolute worst of me. She knows I am always alone. She is not expecting to be served by royalty. She will understand and accept my faults and…

I walked back into the living area and she smiled at me. 

“The new managers seem nice,” she said. 

“Good.” My hand was shaking terribly as I filled both cups with steaming water. 

“What is wrong with your hand?” Madeline asked. 

“I beg your pardon?” 

Madeline met my eye and smiled. “Surely you’re not nervous,” she gently responded. “It’s me, Erik.”

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” I replied somewhat bitterly. “Not here, at least. Visiting me as you once did when…”

Back when Madeline had liked me? At a time when she had felt sorry for me? When she viewed me as a helpless child in need of supervision? 

“You haven’t been here in years,” I said.

My words came out angrier than I had anticipated, which had not been my intention as I was filled with sorrow, overflowing with the grief of knowing this visit would not be followed by another and another. Madeline would leave, she might even promise that we would see each other soon, and then I would be left waiting for weeks. Those weeks would turn to months, possibly even years, and then she would forget me again and I would be by myself, wallowing in my own self-pity and apathy. 

Madeline frowned at me. “I know. I’ve missed you.”

“Why?” I asked. 

She appeared slightly taken aback by my words. “Why would I miss you?”

“Yes. Clearly you are attempting to be polite.” 

My heart sank as I imagined that Madeline would have to lie to me. How could she possibly ever miss someone such as myself? 

She could not. If she had missed me, it would not have taken years for her to pay me a visit. We would have seen each other frequently as we had years earlier, in the lakeside home I had claimed as my own, on the rooftop, and sometimes the streets of Paris. 

But she had stopped visiting me, and her life continued while mine remained miserably stagnant. She had left me long ago and I could not for the life of me understand how she had so easily discarded me when I had once lingered on her every word and savored her attention like a pathetic pet that had been tossed into an alley to fend for itself. 

It had been just over a week since Madeline and I had met on the rooftop for sweets and I had agonized over how that brief meeting had not gone as well as it should have. For hours I had fixated on every part of our conversation, wondering what had gone wrong and how I could have fixed it. The only answer I could supply was that the situation could have been fixed if I were not me.

“I am truly sorry for not coming to you sooner.” Madeline placed her hand over mine, just as she had done countless times in the past. “You are correct. I have been a terrible friend to you and I regret that I have neglected our friendship.” 

My throat tightened and I swallowed the ever-growing lump. “Why would anyone want to come here? Into this–this wretched cellar filled refuse and–and all of these half-finished compositions?”

Both of her hands were clasped over mine, so soft and gentle and yet still firm. Motherly. Ever since I had first come to live beneath the Opera House, Madeline was the only person who had ever touched me. I craved the warmth of her hand over mine, to have contact with another person, to feel as though I were not so alone. 

That was all I had ever desired: to feel like I belonged. 

“I come here to see you because you are my friend,” she said. “I should not have left you alone for so long. I truly have no excuse for how I have treated you. I regret not telling you this sooner, Erik, and I hope that you will forgive me.”

I bowed my head, willing the tears to remain unshed as I had been unexpectedly emotionally compromised. An apology! No one had ever apologized to me, aside from Madeline, who had once treated me in a way that I had never truly deserved. 

Madeline removed one of her hands from mine in order to lift her cup to her lips. “What are you working on?” she asked. 

“My opera,” I answered. “Always the damned opera. I will die before I finish that God-forsaken composition.”

She lifted a brow. “Such language.” 

I snorted. “My language has not changed.”

“Surly as ever,” Madeline said under her breath. She met my eye and chuckled. 

The sound of her laughter relaxed me, and I found her company quite welcome, just as it had always been. The amount of time didn’t matter as much as I wanted to believe; she had always been my friend and the small hiccup from the previous encounter was behind us.  

“Did you expect something different?” I asked. “Hell will freeze over before I amend my ways.”

Madeline smiled and ate another grape. “Heavens no. I’m glad you’re still the same.” 

I took another sip of tea. “How are rehearsals?”

“Good,” she answered. “Christine Daae has been a bit distracted lately, which comes as no surprise.”

“Dreaming again?” I asked, attempting to sound disinterested. 

“As we previously established, Mademoiselle Daae lives with her head in the clouds,” Madeline explained. “She’s always in two different places, feet barely on the ground, mind elsewhere.”

“Her imagination never ceases to amaze me,” I said, attempting to turn the negative into a positive. 

Madeline grunted. “Well, she needs to be a better dancer.”

“She shows great promise in becoming the next lead soprano.” 

Madeline paused, her eyes narrowed. “The next lead?”

I nodded. “You are already aware of her voice lessons.”

“Yes,” she said, “but I didn’t think these lessons were serious in nature.”

“What did you think they were for, Madame? To pass the time?”

Madeline searched my face. “I thought it was for your own amusement.”

I took great offense to her words. “My amusement?” 

“Yes,” Madeline said, ignoring my tone. “Christine gave up on music after her father’s death. Since she has come here, she’s been a dancer.”

“Why can’t she be both?” 

“Her voice is suitable for a chorus girl–”

“Christine has forgotten how she was once able to sing and how much she enjoyed it,” I insisted.

Madeline watched me closely. “She told you this?”

“She has told me about her father and how she used to sing when they traveled together. Being able to use her voice again and challenge herself reminds Christine of him.”

“I am surprised to hear this.”

“Surprised? Why would you be surprised?”

“Because Christine had a very difficult time after her father’s passing. I would not think she would want to be reminded of those days.”

“Christine is reminded of the good moments as well, of which there are many,” I replied. “Her childhood was not merely the death of her father, but a life spent in his care. He doted upon her. Perhaps you were not aware of this, Madame.”

Madeline didn’t argue. “You know her father Gustave once performed with the orchestra here, correct?”

“I am aware.”

One of the first items I had stumbled upon once I moved into the fifth cellar was a violin belonging to none other than Gustave Daae, a musician who had performed with the orchestra for several seasons. 

“He was a bit of a scoundrel,” Madeline said, picking at her nails.

“Yes, you mentioned that previously.”

“Quite frankly, I’m surprised he was a decent father, but I am glad to hear that Christine has good memories of him. I merely hope that your voice lessons do not resurrect feelings that she has difficulty being able to cope with.”

"Christine is reminded of the days spent by the sea with her father as they traveled," I answered. 

It was a good memory for her, one that she had told me about multiple times. I enjoyed listening to her speak of the villages and small towns they spent their time in, entertaining the locals over the summers and sometimes into bitterly cold winters. 

As a boy, before I had left my parents' home for good, I had spent many evenings in the ocean, bathing beneath the moonlight on my own private stretch of beach. It was not as pleasant of a memory for me as it was for Christine and her childhood filled with affection, but it was enough of a similarity where I felt as thought we had something in common. 

“Christine shall excel far beyond the talent of a simple chorus girl,” I insisted, voice raised. “She will unseat La Carlotta in under six months and become the Opera Populaire’s most valuable asset.”

Madeline didn’t readily reply. She took another sip of tea and nibbled on the cheese I’d brought out with the grapes. 

“You are very confident in Mademoiselle Daae’s abilities.”

“Christine wants this,” I said firmly. “And I want this for her.”

Madeline smiled politely. “You are still giving Christine lessons in the chapel, correct?”

“Yes, several times a week now.”

“Several?” Madeline’s brows shot up. “I am glad she is taking her lessons seriously, then. Lord knows she needs some area of improvement to set her sights on.”

As much as I wanted to agree with Madeline, I looked away and sighed. 

“Are you taking the lessons more seriously than her?” Madeline questioned.

“No,” I said quickly. “Yes. Sometimes. I’m not sure. It’s more that…well, she becomes frustrated and thinks she should master her skills immediately.”

“She’s young. Were you aware that she’s barely twenty?”

It seemed like a peculiar thing to say. If she was insinuating that my relationship with Christine, which was nothing more than a friendship, was nefarious in nature then Madeline was mistaken. I was not some lecherous creature preying upon a child; Christine was an adult, and besides that I wasn’t preying upon her. We were both adults and there was nothing inappropriate. 

“Age has nothing to do with it. She lacks discipline.” 

“You are and have always been dedicated to music,” Madeline pointed out. “You’ve been working on your opera for years and that takes a lot of patience. Perhaps Christine doesn’t have what it takes.”

“She has what it takes,” I replied, my voice slightly raised again as Madeline’s words began to frustrate me. “She just doesn’t realize that she has everything she needs aside from the will to listen.”

“Listen to you?” Madeline asked.

“Yes.” 

“What do you do if she doesn’t listen?” 

“What do you think I do?” I shot back.

“I have no idea.”

“I leave,” I answered, feeling a spike of frustration.

Madeline’s eyes widened. “In the middle of the lesson you walk out of the chapel?”

“No,” I replied. “I’m not in the chapel, I’m in the hall.”

Madeline stared at me for a long moment. “Erik, has Christine not seen you face-to-face?”

“What does that matter?” 

“I just…it’s been three months, hasn’t it?” Madeline stammered. “I thought by now that she would know you on a more personable level.”

It had been almost a year, but that seemed much worse to admit that length of time to Madeline. 

“She does know me and I know her.” 

“But she’s never seen you?”

“Not yet.”

“Why?”

I looked Madeline in the eye and lifted my mask. “Why would you think, Madame?” I coldly asked.

Madeline did not have the courtesy to look the least bit repulsed by the sight of my grotesque face. She barely batted an eye, the damnable woman and her insistence in proving she thought no different of me than anyone else. 

“I wouldn’t think you would remove your mask the first lesson–”

“I will never remove my mask,” I assured her. The more I had thought it over, the more concerned I became that despite Christine’s acceptance of her father’s corpse, she would have an aversion to me appearing like death. 

“Never?”

“Christine is better off being spared such horrors.” 

“Horrors? Is that how you expect her to refer to you? As some type of–of–”

“A freak show attraction?” I snapped. 

Madeline’s lips parted. “Erik,” she said softly. “Are you sure about this?”

“There is not a doubt in my mind.” 

Chapter 16: Rejection

Notes:

I have always loved writing Erik and Madeline (Madame Giry). She brings out the best in him when he only wants to be at his worst.

Chapter 16

 

Breitkopf & Hartel were damnable fools that would not have known a decent piece of music if it bit them in the ass. 

I sat at the dining room table and read their standard letter of rejection several times, just in case the words wanted to rearrange themselves into something I would find more satisfactory. 

We regret to inform you that we are not interested in your submission at this time…

“You stupid mother fu–”

“Well?” Madeline asked, clearing her throat.

I glared at her, incensed by her timing. How she managed to maneuver through the house without making a sound was beyond me, but her sudden presence merely added to my already disagreeable mood. 

“No,” I said. “They said no. Again.”

She frowned back at me. "I am sorry to hear that."

"Sorry but not surprised," I muttered.

“Next time,” she assured me. 

I scoffed. 

"Don't scoff."

To that, I rolled my eyes.

Madeline made a face at me. "Why are you rolling your eyes?"

"Because I am highly irritated!" 

Madeline shifted her weight. "This will pass."

"No, it will not."

"Tomorrow is a new day."

"A new day with new failures."

"Oh, Erik," Madeline said with a shake of her head and a sigh for good measure. "Next time you will see your music is accepted." 

There would not be a next time.  I was done with submitting compositions that some fool sitting at a tiny desk crammed with thousands of musical submissions wadded through, giddy with excitement to dash the dreams of hopeful composers. Somewhere in Germany, some balding little rat of a man with zero talent evaluated and rejected my music. The sheer audacity of that lowly, nameless bastard! To hell with everyone and everything. 

“I’m selling my violin,” I told Madeline, grasping my head in both hands.

She gasped quite dramatically. “Your violin? How will you play your music?”

“I will not play anything ever again.”

I had announced this on several occasions, usually accompanied by a string of very creative curses, but this was for certain the last time. The very last of the final times I’d threatened to quit. 

Another gasp of horror.  “No, Erik, you cannot do that.” 

“And why not?”

“Because you’re a wonderful composer.”

I balled up the rejection letter in my fist and shook it in the air. “Clearly that is not the case!”

“You cannot quit after one or two rejections.”

“I believe I’ve collected over a dozen.” I tossed the balled up paper across the table. “Because one or two was not enough for me to learn my lesson. For Christ’s sake, I could paper the entire hall with my damnable rejection!”

Without intending to, I moaned, which was dramatic and borderline comical to my own ears. Thankfully, Madeline chose not to mock me and instead offered a nod of sympathy. 

“The next one you submit could be the one.”

“Or it could be another dismissal.” 

“Or it could be the one they wish to purchase.”

“Why does this matter to you? Why do you want me to continue?”

“Because.”

“Because you enjoy watching me fail.”

“Must you be so cynical?” 

“Yes, it is a necessity.” 

Madeline smiled back at me. “I want you to keep trying because I want you to succeed, Erik. I want the world to hear your music. Please, don’t give up. I know it will not happen overnight, but it will happen for you and then you will have the world at your feet.” 

Madeline was sincere in her words and beliefs. She truly believed I was on the cusp of greatness, of achieving the status of a great composer.

She was wrong, of course, but she believed quite foolishly and her faith in me was almost convincing. Almost.  

Unfortunately for her, I had ever intention of sulking a while longer.

“One more,” I said. “One more and then that will be the end of it.”

“Five more,” she insisted. “I will help you select which compositions to send out.” 

“At the most I’m sending out two.”

“Seven. Seven is a good number. A lucky number.”

“Three.”

“No, make it ten, a good, even number.”

“Five,” I replied. “A nice odd number.”  

“Five is acceptable,” Madeline agreed.

I started to speak, but abruptly clamped my jaw shut, realizing that I had agreed to her initial request. “Damnit,” I said through my teeth. 

Madeline gasped. “Such language!”

“You’ve heard worse from me, no doubt,” I grumbled. “A hell of a lot worse.”

“Unfortunately I have and your cursing is not necessary in front of a lady.”

I fought the urge to roll my eyes. She was a woman, but one that I had known for years and I wasn’t sure that counted. 

“Apologies,” I said under my breath. 

“You are going to have to learn to control your temper,” Madeline said, having the audacity to pat my arm. 

“And why on earth would I want to do that?” I groused.

Madeline smirked. “Because I said so.” 

 

OoO

The auditions for Hannibal had thankfully been postponed with the transfer of the theater from the original idiot managers to two even more idiotic fools. 

I had yet to be able to tell them apart, but one of the new managers wanted to acquaint himself with the production and asked for the audition to take place the following week once he was familiar with the music from start to finish. 

It was for the best, especially for Christine and she was eager to audition. While in most instances Christine showed tremendous improvement, there were still plenty of moments where she knew what to do, but chose to ignore my suggestions. Many times she was bored by my requests to straighten her spine, tilt her head up further, and open her diaphragm. 

“These are the basics,” she complained, as if I were the one choosing to be lazy. “Why are we back to the basics?”

“Because you need a refresher.”

“But I want to sing a full aria.”

“Such as what? Queen of the Night? You’re not ready and if you start out with a difficult arrangement you’re going to give up.” 

“I will not!”

“We aren’t even doing anything that is challenging and you’re already acting like a spoiled child. Now, run through the scales again.”

Christine gasped at my words, and although I considered retracting what I’d said, I stayed my ground. Fact was fact. She had mastered everything we had gone over in a year’s time and had suddenly reverted back to the first few months of lessons. While Christine was mildly dismayed, I was beyond frustrated. 

“I am not doing scales. Give me something else.”

“No.”

“Yes, I am bored by your instructions.”

“Bored? You aren’t ready to move on,” I said. “I will not argue with you. Now warm up again.”

“No.”

“Christine–”

“If you will not give me a more challenging lesson because you think I am acting like a spoiled child, I will find a new instructor if that’s how you feel.” 

She was bluffing. I was certain of it. She was also acting like a spoiled brat and I was not about to play her wicked little game. 

“Fine. Good luck to you and your new voice coach then, Christine. He will certainly need all the luck in the world.” 

I was almost to the end of the hall when she called out for me to stop. 

“Please, please don’t leave! Oh, Angel, please don’t abandon me. I need you!”

I paused in front of the doorway at the end of the hall and glanced over my shoulder. Perhaps it was wrong of me, but I enjoyed the way Christine pleaded, the desperation for my company as no one had ever asked for me to stay, let alone begged me to return. 

For several moments I lingered, listening as she became more and more frantic. It served her right to beg. I hoped she was aware of how much she truly did need me as I doubted anyone else would have put up with her behavior. 

“I’m here,” I said at last, making sure my tone remained stern as she was in need of a lesson. 

Through the mirror I saw her relief, the way she placed her hand to her heart. “Oh, thank goodness,” she said under her breath. 

“Do not threaten me, Christine,” I said. “I am not here for your whims, is that understood?”

She nodded eagerly. “I will not ever threaten to replace you. I promise.”

“You do as I instruct.”

“Of course.”

“And we will not have this conversation again.” 

Christine hesitated. For a moment I thought I’d taken my demands too far, but I was not about to argue with her endlessly when I knew I was correct. As much as I adored her, the last few weeks of lessons ended on sour notes, more figuratively than literally, and I was beginning to dread my time spent outside of the chapel.

“Is that understood?” I snapped. 

She bowed her head and nodded. “Yes, I understand.” 

“Good. Then we shall resume tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?”

“Yes, we are done for today.”

“But–”

“I said you will not argue with me.”

Christine’s head sank lower. “Yes, of course. Forgive me, angel.”

“You are a good girl, Christine,” I said. 

I wasn’t sure why I had said that, but Christine blushed profusely and apologized again. It pleased me that she responded well to firm instruction, and I hoped that if I continued to maintain the same tone we could move forward.

Once I returned to my home, I made myself a bite to eat and prepared to spend the rest of my day composing. 

Inspiration was often fleeting, and no matter if I sat in front of an entire stack of blank paper or surrounded myself with finished compositions, I could not force the music to flow through me. 

I could spend hours on the same melody, refining it within my head, playing it over and over on the instruments that resided only in my thoughts and then jot it down, play it on the organ or piano and find that it sounded as though a toddler composed it–and not a toddler such as Mozart, but one that had only been exposed to remedial nursery rhymes.   

Weeks had passed and my life’s work, the opera I had written, rewritten, disposed of entirely, and started again sat mocking me.

I was on my fifth or sixth incarnation of the music, which fought me tooth and nail through every note.

“I should retire,” I said under my breath. “I suppose I’d have to publish music in order to retire.”

My cynical thoughts annoyed me, and I flung my mask aside, sitting with my head in my hands, defeated once again.

“Don Juan Defeated,” I announced to the walls. “How does that sound? Like a damnable masterpiece written by a failure, does it not?”

My God, I had fallen further into madness than I had ever imagined, resorting to speaking to myself. 

I thought of Nadir Khan, who would have entertained my self-deprecation at least for a while. I wondered what that old fart was up to in whatever country he was currently residing. It would have been unnecessary to ever see him again, but I would not have minded the conversation.

“Nadir, the world has no use for my music. Quite frankly, I don’t know why I bother.” I stretched my legs out, extending them so far that my kneecaps ached. “The world has no use for me, either. Perhaps I should give up entirely.”

The thought was alarming, but not unexpected. Over the course of my lifetime I had often wondered what in the hell I had to look forward to in my life that kept me moving forward. I had no career, which was exceedingly disappointing. I had no friends that paid me visits, no correspondence that wished to hear from me, no family…

I had two cousins, but it had been far too long since I’d arrived in Paris and I could not imagine reaching out to them twenty years too late. For all I knew, they no longer lived in Paris. 

What would I possibly say to the two of them, Valgarde and …what was his name? Phelan? Felandt? My uncle had not mentioned the second one much. 

“Hello, my name is Erik, and I believe we are related,” I said to the mirror covered in black drapes. I stood and offered a mocking bow. “What a pleasure to meet you. Oh, you do not believe it’s a pleasure at all? You’re probably correct. Perhaps I should kill you and get this over with.” 

I sat heavily, miserably wallowing in my own thoughts. To hell with the two of them, I insisted. They were probably terrible people who would want nothing to do with me until they caught word of my well-padded bank account. 

Was that my way to earning friendships? Perhaps I could pay people to attend a ball or an exclusive supper with me as the host. A thousand francs per willing guest and they had to stay for the entire night at which time they would be paid in a discrete envelope of banknotes. Four hours, minimum, over a seven course meal with music afterwards. 

Make it five hours. Five hours and they each had to spend at least forty-five minutes speaking to me on topics of my choosing. 

“And then what?” I asked myself. “Five hours being held prisoner, compensated for their time, and no one would ever return again.  A waste of money.”

My heart sank. I had become increasingly lonely over the years, lonely to the point of feeling hopeless in my situation. At one time I had allowed myself to imagine grand balls and lively discussions, rooms filled with people who wanted my attention. 

In every fantasy I imagined myself healed of my scars as well as the awkwardness of being so inexperienced with conversation that I stammered over my words and made a fool of myself. 

I had nothing. 

My spine straightened. No, that wasn’t true. I was not completely without. Of course I had someone! I had Christine and she would obey me. What could be better than a young woman, who was in mourning and as alone as I’d ever been, hanging on my every word? Better yet she was an orphan, same as me, and in need of guidance. We were meant to be together, destined to be as one. 

We were perfectly compatible in every way, bound together by music and our sadness. Once she understood that I was a man, not an angel, she would realize that she loved me and that we could spend the rest of our lives together. 

My hope was renewed, my mind filled with inspiration. I wrote an aria, start to finish, and played the music on my violin until I wept at how perfect and beautiful it sounded. 

Finally. Finally! I had written something that I could be proud of, something I could ask Christine to put a voice to the music. 

“Sing for me,” I whispered. “Sing for me, my angel. My angel of music.”

Chapter 17: The Unexpected

Chapter 17

 

Madeline was correct: my language was in significant need of improvement, not merely for the sake of the two women residing within my home, but for the unexpected child at the end of January left at our front door by Christine. 

I had been considering a dog more and more as I felt the need to stop dwelling on all I lacked and take care of something more helpless than myself. And then, without any warning, came the most helpless little human I’d ever seen.

My son. 

Alexandre, my sweet, perfect and unexpected son, changed the course of my life from the moment he was placed in my waiting arms. I wanted nothing more than to give him the moon and stars, to fill his nursery with hundreds of toys and his heart with as much love as it could contain. 

He was my pride and joy, the reason for me to live. He was everything, including unexpectedly the inspiration for my music. 

“And?” Madeline asked as she walked into my bedroom. 

I had Alex nestled in one arm while I struggled to open the letter from the publisher with the other. God forbid I hand Alex to Madeline when he had chosen to nap on me, especially when I already knew the letter would say the same thing the others said: we are not interested in your music. 

“What do you think it says?” I grumbled, keeping my voice low so that I didn’t wake Alex while still making certain it was filled with enough consternation for Madeline to know I was displeased with yet another rejection. 

“I have no idea. You haven’t opened it yet. Give me Alex so that you can use both hands.”

“Alex is fine,” I assured her. 

“Erik…”

I scowled and Madeline shook her head at me, knowing damned well I would not voluntarily hand Alex over to anyone. My arm could have gone completely numb or fallen off completely and I would have held him close. My love for my child was stronger than anything I'd ever experienced--including his mother. 

 

Dear Monsieur Kire,

 

We are pleased to inform you that Breitkopf & Hartel is interested in purchasing your music, a symphony titled ‘Number 38 in E Minor’ for publication. 

Enclosed is the contract for purchase and a self-addressed stamped envelope for return correspondence. 

Warmest Regards,

 

I looked down at my sleeping son, then the letter, and lastly Madeline, who looked worried. I folded the letter and placed it back on my desk, causing Madeline to frown. 

After months of rejection, after feeling certain that I would never be able to consider myself a composer, I had one single triumph. 

Silently I was elated. I looked down at Alex, who had not moved a muscle, and ran my fingers through his dark hair before I addressed Madeline.

“I’ve sold a piece of music. I’ve sold a symphony.”

Madeline immediately gasped and clasped both hands over her heart. I felt myself grinning in return at her, pleased beyond comprehension. 

“The one I suggested?” she proudly asked.

“I– Well, yes. But I would have chosen that one to send out anyhow.”

Her smile broadened. “Good. I hope the others I suggested sell next.” 

“Are you requesting a cut of the profits, Madame?” I dryly asked. 

Madeline chuckled. “We shall discuss compensation when the check arrives.” 

 

OoO

 

“It’s him! It’s The Phantom!” 

“The Phantom is responsible!”

“The Ghost! The Ghost has done this!”

I was the specter in question, it was eleven in the morning, and I had done absolutely nothing to warrant such frantic shrieks. 

Sitting alone in Box Five awaiting the auditions, I sighed to myself and climbed to my feet, aggravated that my day was wasted at such an early hour.

The auditions were forty minutes late and no one was in the theater besides me, which was quite unusual. I’d lost track of time reading through Hannibal and became engrossed in the music I played in my head. 

Five minutes after I reached the cold, musty halls on the first level, it became quite evident why auditions had been postponed yet again:

“He’s dying!”

“I heard he was already dead!”

“They’ve found a pulse.”

“Oh thank God! That poor man!”

Who in the hell is almost dead? I silently wondered.

“What I don’t understand is why,” Meg Giry chimed in.

Hers was the only voice I recognized as she sounded almost exactly like her mother, but younger. I couldn’t imagine how Madeline would feel about me saying that, but it was true. 

“What do you mean ‘why’?”

“Why would the Opera Ghost want to poison Andre?” Meg asked. “What has he done to earn the wrath of the ghost?”

Finally! The voice of reason from none other than Meg Giry. Why would the Opera Ghost, who had done nothing of the sort previously, want to poison one of the incoming new managers?

 “Because The Ghost wants Andrea dead!”

“Yes, that is what you keep saying, but why does The Ghost want the new opera manager dead?” Meg questioned. “That makes no sense.”

“Probably because The Ghost wants to be the new manager!”

Whoever had said that was met with several affirmations that this was indeed my plan. 

“Then why didn’t The Ghost apply to be the manager when the previous managers announced their imminent retirement?”

That was precisely what I would have pointed out if I’d been standing in the midst of twelve ballerinas. Clearly I was not involved in Andre’s apparent near-demise. Quite frankly, it was much too early for that sort of nonsense. Poisoning took a lot of effort, I assumed. 

“It makes perfect sense! The Ghost is evil and does not want the new managers to take over.”

There was a murmur through their little gathering, questions asked in whispers. I stood with my hands behind my back, frowning at the insinuation that I was an evil entity when I was nothing of the sort. 

None of them realized my true benevolence. Well before any of them had taken to the stage in order to support their families or please their mothers, rules had been put into place, rules that were enforced and provided them with benefits other opera houses lacked. 

They were beneath my mindful gaze, which was far less leering than the gazes of other men. 

The crack of a cane to the wooden floor made all twelve girls jump and scream. I jumped as well, a scream caught in the back of my throat. 

Damn it, Madeline! Always one for the dramatic entrance!

“What are you girls discussing?” Madeline asked.

Of course now that the ballet mistress was present, no one would dare say a word. 

“I will not ask again,” Madeline said through her teeth. 

At last someone stepped forward. “Has The Phantom poisoned Monsieur Andre?” 

Madeline did not readily supply an answer. I held my breath, eyes flitting back and forth, worried that she, too, thought I was responsible for whatever had transpired.

“Monsieur Andre has come down with a cold and has decided he is better off resting than seeing to the Opera House affairs this week,” she said. “Being that he is male, this illness has taken quite the toll, but he shall make a full recovery and I trust our new managers will transition to their new positions quite easily.”

I smiled to myself. What a dramatic ass! A cold indeed confining him to bed. The man lacked worth ethic. 

“A word of caution, girls,” Madeline said.
The dancers fell silent, and I imagined them all gathered around Madeline, a huddled mass of sheep with their shepherdess.

“How many of you have performed at other theaters?”

I assumed a hand or two was raised.

“How many men were allowed into the practice rooms?”

A few patrons. Those offering to be benefactors. 

“How many of those men were allowed into the dressing rooms?”

All of them, came the quiet, shameful reply.

“And now that you are employed here, at the Opera Populaire, how many men are allowed in the practice room?” Madeline asked. “How many strangers are allowed into the dressing rooms?”

A murmur swept through them. It is forbidden.

“That is correct. None,” Madeline said. “You are not harassed by old men making false promises or brazenly sticking their hands up skirts. Do you know why that is?”

The murmurs turned to silence. 

“The Ghost,” Meg said quietly. “He will not allow anyone to trespass.”

“Yes, precisely, Meg. The Opera Ghost forbids strangers preying upon his dancers. It is written in red ink within the memorandum and cannot be amended.”

No one was allowed to touch the girls and young ladies, no matter what position they held within the opera house. They were safe within my domain. It was one of my very first amendments when I became known as the Phantom of the Opera Populaire. 

Madeline thumped her cane on the ground again. “Do not speak ill of The Ghost. He is not your enemy.”

Her words tightened my throat. After all of these years, Madeline still defended me. 

“Have you met The Ghost, Madame?” one of the girls asked. 

“I have lived here before there was a Ghost to haunt the halls,” Madeline answered. “Our paths have crossed previously.”

“Is he a friend of yours?”

“The Opera Ghost is not my enemy.”

There was a brief murmur before Madeline once again thumped her cane on the floor, three times in a row. 

“Are you dancers or gossip mongers?” she asked. 

“Both!”

The girls giggled. I much appreciated their mirth.

“To rehearsals at once,” Madeline ordered. “Meg?”

“Yes, Mother?”

“Where is Christine?”

Chapter 18: An Opera Disaster and a Plan

Chapter 18

 

Day by day, I spent more time in the dining room, study, and library than alone in my bedroom. Meg cursed from the kitchen when she dropped something and made no apologies, and I wondered if Madeline had any idea that her shy, beloved daughter sounded like a sailor in the port when she was frustrated. 

It greatly amused me that demur Meg was not quite as angelic as I always assumed. For better or worse, we had at least one trait in common. 

While Meg took pleasure–or displeasure–in cooking, Madeline joined me for hours where she always seemed to be sewing the same damned thing all week. 

“How are you not finished with that skirt yet?” I asked one day when she had been humming the same tune to herself with slightly different lyrics. Her company was welcomed, however, her humming was very distracting and I had yet to find a polite way to suggest she stop because it was driving me mad. 

“I only started this morning.”

Immediately she began humming again. I had half the mind to ask if she was doing this on purpose. //

“No, you started last week,” I argued. “I distinctly remember because I stepped on the hem and you yelled at me.”

“I didn’t yell at you.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I told you to be more careful.”

“You hardly whispered it.”

Madeline looked as though she wished to yell at me, but she refrained as Alex was napping a room away. 

“This is a different skirt from last week. And I never yelled at you.”

She had yelled at me, despite what she claimed. Scowled, even, which greatly offended me as it had been an accident.

“Last week? How many skirts do you have in the same color?”

“I don’t know. Three?”

“Why don’t you purchase different colors or patterns? We are hardly destitute.”

Madeline paused in her sewing and looked quite pointedly at me. “Different colors and patterns? Such as the very expensive wool socks you're wearing?”

I didn't have to glance down at my feet. “They are not wool, they’re imported alpaca."

I supposed I proved her point on the 'expensive' aspect of my purchase.

"Am I not allowed to import stockings that I find agreeable to my standards?” I groused.

Madeline looked down at my feet and made a face. “Is that truly to your standards?”

I wasn’t sure why she felt the need to insult my preference for brightly colored alpaca socks imported from South America. They were exotic, expensive, and yes, outside of my normal tastes, but they were the most comfortable accessory in my wardrobe and I would be damned if anyone disapproved of my socks. 

“I thought you would like these,” I said, feeling quite offended. 

I also wasn’t sure why I wanted to wear socks that I thought Madeline would approve of, but I had purchased a dozen pairs and I did find them preferable to traditional wool. They were far more soft and comfortable than scratchy wool.

“I don’t dislike them,” Madeline said. “They aren’t my style. I would not have thought they were to your preference, either.” 

“You are insulting me,” I observed. “Last week you yelled at me, today you insult me.”

Madeline furrowed her brow. “How am I insulting you?”

“You dislike my imported socks!” I loudly whispered.

Madeline pursed her lips and shook her head. “You are in a mood today.”

“I am always in a mood,” I groused. 

Madeline huffed. “That’s true.”

“Indeed.” 

“The truth is, I’ve never seen you wear anything but darker shades.”

I looked away from her. “Perhaps I have changed,” I muttered under my breath. 

Madeline reached out and touched the back of my hand. Sh smiled when I met her eye. “Then by all means, Erik, enjoy your alpaca socks. They are quite lovely.” 

"Thank you," I said in return. 

 

oOo

 

Things changed swiftly around the Opera Populaire while at the same time it felt as though everything remained stagnant.

Thankfully, the greatest and most pleasing change came from Christine. One day we were in the middle of her lessons and I realized that it had been weeks since she had thrown a tantrum or refused her exercises. She had finally progressed to the point where I was certain La Carlotta would be replaced immediately. 

Christine was far better than Carlotta in every way. Her voice was second to none, she appeared relaxed rather than made out of wood, and she had a presence about her that often gave me pause.

Christine Daae was ready. After almost a year of lessons--the last three months of which h finally took seriously--she was finally ready for her audition which would undoubtedly lead to La Carlotta leaving the theater like the disgraced cow that she was.

Imagine my horror, then, while, in the middle of her audition, Christine froze during her aria, stared blankly into the empty auditorium, and fled from the stage, weeping hysterically and beyond consolation by her fellow ballet dancers. 

“What in the hell was that?” I grumbled to myself as the conductor frantically looked around and the managers went on to the next person auditioning for a solo. 

Alone in Box Five, I removed my mask and scrubbed my hand down my face, unable to stomach another thirty minutes of women who sounded like bleating goats on the stage. 

Christine’s audition could not have gone worse if hell itself had opened up and swallowed the entire auditorium. I stormed out of the box and to the chapel where I stood briefly, then found my time better spent pacing in the hall, awaiting Christine’s arrival. 

At least I assumed she would eventually make her way into the chapel, fall to her knees, and beg for my forgiveness after ruining her chance of becoming the next leading lady. 

“Ridiculous,” I said under my breath. “What in the hell was she thinking?” 

This was the worst disaster in theater history, an abomination of song. I could only hope that Christine was not informing all of the dancers that she had a special tutor as clearly her tutor was a mad fool who put far too much faith in his student’s ability. 

Just as I became thoroughly incensed by the situation and all of my wasted time and effort, Christine burst through the chapel door with three more dancers at her heels. 

Damn it. What in the hell are they all doing here?

“Angel?” she called out. 

I stepped toward the mirror, my lips parted, but unable to speak, not with an audience present. 

“Are you sure he’s here?” one of the ballet dancers asked, crossing her arms.

“Yes,” Christine assured the others. “He’s always here.” 

Two more dancers walked into the chapel, which was now quite crowded. 

“Where does the angel normally appear?” another girl asked Christine.

“His voice fills the room,” Christine explained.

“But you don’t….see him?”

Christine clasped her hands and shook her head. “No, never.” 

The other dancers exchanged looks.

“Are you certain the angel is real?”

“He speaks to me,” Christine snapped. “No one sees angels unless they reveal themselves and no one hears angels unless they allow their chosen to hear them. You will not hear his voice unless he deems it so. Unless you are worthy of his affection and power.”

The girls stood around Christine with their arms crossed, exchanging smug looks. “You’re lying.” 

“I am not lying!”

“You want us to believe that there is an angel that only reveals himself to you?” 

“He does,” Christine insisted. 

“Why you? You aren’t anything special.”

Christine ignored the insult. She walked toward the mirror and squared her shoulders while the other girls gathered around, arms crossed as they stared back at their reflections. 

All at once I was transported back to the time of the traveling fair and the thousands of strangers who had viewed me on display within a cage. There were no iron bars, no beating to keep me submissive, but there were curious eyes awaiting the arrival of Christine’s angel.

My appearance in the chapel was for her alone, not a gathering of skeptical dancers. I was in no way prepared or interested in fielding questions or proving myself to anyone. 

Christine took a deep breath. “Angel. I am here. Please speak to me.”

She stepped forward and grabbed the edge of the mirror, which rattled as she attempted to pull it open. My heart leapt into my throat and I placed my hands over the latches, fearing they would break off as they were not meant to be pulled on. If that happened, the mirror would pop open and she would see me as nothing more than a frantic, masked man standing in a damp hall. 

“What are you doing?” one of the other girls asked.

“He’s in the mirror! Help me remove the glass.”

My lips moved in silence and I shook my head. No, Christine, not like this. Never like this.

The mirror rattled again, the latches stretched to their limits as they were meant to hold the glass in place, not secure it.

“Help me,” Christine pleaded over her shoulder.

The other girls stepped forward, and I wasn’t sure I could hold the mirror in place against the rest of them working together.  

Mercifully, Meg Giry burst into the chapel, panting as if she had sprinted across the theater moments before I was prepared to flee down the hall. 

“Christine!” Meg shouted. “I’ve looked everywhere for you.”

The dancers abandoned their task and the mirror, which had opened no more than an inch. When they let go, the secret door slammed shut, cracking the lower edge. 

“Meg! Oh, thank goodness you are here!  Help me find the angel.”

Meg stared wide-eyed at Christine. “The angel?”

Christine’s expression faltered. “Yes. I’ve told you about him…remember?”

Meg slowly nodded. “Yes, I remember. Mother is looking for you, though, and I promised I would send you straight to her.”

“I can’t,” Christine insisted. “I can’t leave until I speak with the angel first about my audition.”

“Perhaps the angel is not here right now,” Meg said warily. 

She was the youngest of all of the girls, but clearly the most sensible. Never in my life would I have expected to be overjoyed to see Madeline’s daughter.

Christine’s expression twisted. “He’s here. He’s always here. Everyone out! Out, out, out!” she screamed, stamping her feet. “Leave me! Leave me alone with my angel!” 

In the middle of the crowded chapel, Christine had a tantrum fit for a young child. She threw her arms in the air, stomped on the stone floor, and screamed until she collapsed in a heap on the polished stones. 

“Christine!” Meg shrieked. 

There was nothing I could do for her, save to watch from the other side of the mirror as she continued to beat her feet and fists against the ground like a spoiled child who had not gotten her way.  I had never seen a young woman–not a child, but a young woman–engage in such an awful display. 

All the while, the other girls looked on in horror at first, exchanging looks and then devilish smiles as if they found Christine’s tantrum amusing. 

“What is the meaning of this?” Madeline asked as she burst through the door, cane cracking like a whip against the wood. With one sweeping glance, the dancers froze like statues. Madeline looked them all over, one after the other, her eyes narrowed. 

“Meg, not you,” Madeline said to her daughter. She lifted her cane and pointed toward the door for the others. “Out. All of you. Back to the wings.” 

Once the chapel was cleared and the door shut and locked, Madeline turned back to Christine and Meg, who had accompanied Christine on the floor in an attempt to comfort her. 

“What are you doing, Christine?” Madeline asked. 

“The angel–”

“I beg your pardon? What angel?”

Christine looked up with tear-filled eyes and her bottom lip quivering. “The angel of music?”

Madeline leaned on her cane. “Does this angel have a name?”

Christine bowed her head. “No, Madame Giry, he does not.”

Madeline inhaled and turned her attention briefly to me. I knew she couldn’t see me, but it felt as though I were exposed. “What does the angel do?” she asked the mirror.

“He’s very kind to me,” Christine said, following Madeline’s gaze. “I’ve been taking lessons, although I suppose you could not tell today at the audition.”

I took a breath, ashamed of my initial reaction as Christine was clearly distraught by the mishap and anything I would have said would have made the situation worse. 

“Oh?” Madame questioned. 

Christine pushed her hair back from her face. “I became nervous. I’ve never been on display like that before, Madame Giry, I froze, I–”

Madame sat on the prayer bench and offered Christine her hand, which she accepted.

“Not everyone is meant to be front and center on the stage,” Madeline gently said. “I know that your father encouraged you to sing.”

Christine nodded readily.

“He would be proud of you, my dear. You have done very well as part of the chorus.”

“I don’t know if I ever want to sing again after today.”

My mouth dropped open. No, this could not be. She had to sing. It was her purpose in life, it was her gift, one that I had given her. 

Madeline gently patted Christine’s hand. “If you choose to give up singing and concentrate on ballet, you can have a long and rewarding career as a dancer. There is no shame in a life on the stage supporting others.”

“I don’t know what to do,” Christine worried.  

“You have choices, Christine. You needn’t decide at this moment which path to take, but whatever you want, I will encourage and assist you however I can.”

Christine nodded. “You are so kind to me, Madame Giry,” she said, still sniffling. “I am forever grateful that you took me in.”

Madeline smiled warmly at Christine. “You are like a daughter to me, Christine. When I first heard of your mother’s death and then later your father’s illness, I prayed for you every night.”

Christine knelt before Madeline, taking her ballet mistress’ hand in hers. “The Angel of Music heard your prayers as well as my father’s and sent me here. I know this to be true. I know it in my heart. Father said not everyone is visited by the Angel of Music and that he himself was never blessed, but my father said he would send him to me when he was in heaven.”

I took a step back, unsure of what to make of Christine’s words.

“You are a wonderful dancer and an irreplaceable member of the chorus,” Madeline said. “I am certain the Angel of Music will understand if you do not want to audition for a leading role in the future.”

Christine straightened her spine. “No, Madame, I do not want to remain a simple chorus girl. The angel of music has seen my true potential and I will not allow that to go to waste. I must continue to practice.” 

“Are you certain?” Madeline asked. 

“Without a shadow of a doubt.” Christine smiled to herself. She climbed to her feet and stood before the mirror, gaze searching the glass. “He believes in me and I shall believe in myself. Lessons shall resume tomorrow, if the angel is willing.”

oOo 

 

Christine was instructed to return to the auditorium while Madeline remained behind a moment longer. 

“Meg,” Madeline said.

Her daughter froze, eyeing the mirror as if she fully expected an angel would burst through, shattering the glass everywhere, and take her prisoner. 

“Are you still here?” Madeline asked as she stepped toward the mirror. 

I turned away from her, embarrassed by what had transpired.

“Is the Angel of Music still here?” Madeline asked, more insistent than before. “Or shall I call you by a different name?” 

“I am here,” I said at last. 

Meg gasped, wide-eyed and quite possibly more pale than the opera ghost standing on the other side of the mirror. 

“Mother, don’t!” Meg loudly whispered. “He could be dangerous.”

Madeline stared at the mirror and placed her hand on her hip. “He could be,” she agreed, “but he is not.”

“How can you be sure?” Meg asked. 

Madeline’s expression softened. “Go back to the auditorium. I would like a word with the angel.” 

Meg immediately fled and Madeline locked the door behind her daughter. She limped her way toward the prayer bench and sat heavily, groaning as she rubbed her bad knee. 

“You may come out,” she said. 

Reluctantly I unlatched the hooks and slid the mirror open. Madeline appeared mildly surprised that I entered through the mirror. 

“So that’s your trick?” 

“It isn’t a trick,” I replied. 

“No? What would you call it?”

“A door that no one else is aware exists.”

“Are there more false doors?” she asked.

“There may be.” 

Madeline looked me over. “Come into the room.”

“Why?”

“Because I would like to make it more difficult for you to flee if you disagree with what I say to you.”

“You think I am a coward?” I questioned. 

Do you think I am afraid of you, Madame? A ballet mistress with a cane? Nothing could be further from the truth. Indeed, you should be afraid of me.

Of course I would not dare to speak any of those words as I was aware that Madeline had no qualms when it came to striking someone with her cane and I was not about to take a blow to the shin. 

Madeline settled her hands in her lap. “I think you were wise to remain hidden with a roomful of superstitious girls who would spread rumors of an angel faster than flames in a forest standing before you.”

I shrugged. “Why would I be afraid of some ridiculous girls?” 

“When did I say you were afraid, Erik?”

I looked away from her. “Is there something specific you wish to discuss, Madeline?”

Madeline sniffed. “Christine.”

“What about her?”

“Christine is reserved,” she said. “Her audition was disastrous, to say the least.” 

“She was not as ready as I had hoped,” I replied.

“And there is a chance she may never be fully prepared.”

“You may be correct.” I shrugged. “I cannot say.”

“Will you push her to audition again?” Madeline asked.

“I did not push her to audition at all. In fact, Christine wanted to audition six months ago and I discouraged her as I knew she wasn’t to the level she needed to be in order to succeed.”

Madeline kept her gaze trained on mine. “Then it was Christine’s idea to audition?”

“A mutual decision, however, I did suggest that she wait until Il Muto even though the part of the Countess is a bit suited for someone older.”

“La Carlotta has of course secured the role of Imilce in Hannibal. She had the part before auditions took place, as I am certain you are aware.”

“The role in Hannibal can be given to anyone at any time,” I said, annoyed by the conversation. “La Carlotta does not run the theater or demand parts.”

It seemed that I was overdue to speak to the managers considering how I wanted the theater to be run. 

Madeline straightened her spine. “La Carlotta has been unchallenged as the lead soprano for the last--”

"Century? It certainly feels like that old hag has been on stage for decades."

Madeline gestured wildly at me. “Since Cathedra di Carlo passed away unexpectedly, as you already know. The managers will not replace her, despite what you or Christine thinks.”

My posture mirrored hers. “They will replace her if I tell them to do so,” I said firmly. 

Madeline raised a brow. “You have a point of contention with Carlotta?”

I scoffed at Madeline’s words and rolled my eyes. “Anyone with eyes and ears should have contention with that woman. Her voice is fine, but she could not act to save her life.”

And my God, how I would have liked to see La Carlotta attempt to battle for her life while struggling to act. Lighting would have split her in two the moment she opened her mouth. 

“This is your plan? Unseat La Carlotta and replace her with Christine Daae?” Madeline asked. 

“No,” I smoothly replied. “My plan is for Christine to improve so greatly that the new managers are left with no other choice than to remove La Carlotta.”

The new managers would do as I requested. They would move like puppets controlled by a puppeteer or they would suffer the most dire consequences. 

That was my plan. 

 

Notes:

I don't know about you, but I do like the idea of a grumpy Erik Kire delighted in colorful South American alpaca socks. The fluff that man needs to be a little more tolerable :)

Chapter 19: Vicomte

Little Meg Giry waltzed through the house with my son in her arms, singing a made-up song, flat as could be, as if she’d never spent a day of her life on the stage. 

“Please go to sleep, Alex, please close your eyes, please go to sleep, Alex, I can’t listen to you cry,” she said in her sing-song voice. “Please go to sleep, Alex, I am begging you so. Please go to sleep Alex, I have to go…I really, really have to go. I can barely hold it a moment longer.”

The poor girl acted as if she were in danger of being sacked from her low-paying employment as a nanny rather than, well, completely uncompensated for the duty she took upon herself to care for my son while I composed. 

Only it was nearly impossible to compose when Meg was singing so terribly and Alex cried inconsolably and I could think of nothing more than their combined suffering. 

“Madame Lowry,” I said, coming out of the study.

Meg practically jumped five feet down the hall in surprise as I addressed her. 

Ever since she’d been a girl, despite seeing me on multiple occasions with her mother, Meg had acted as though I were truly a malevolent spirit to be feared. 

There would be no consoling or comforting Meg as she had always chosen to be scared to death of me. Rather than verbally ask for my son, I held out my hands to take Alex from her. 

On any other occasion, Meg would have apologized for interrupting and taken Alex into the nursery, but she handed him off at once, turned on her heel, and ran to the water closet, slamming the door behind her. 

I looked down at Alex, whose eyes were pinched shut as he continued to wail in despair. 

“And why on earth are you crying like that?” I asked. 

The sound of my voice gave Alex pause. His gray eyes opened and he looked up at me, taking short, quick breaths as he registered that he’d been handed off. 

Alex smiled up at me, chubby legs kicking beneath his blanket.  

“Better?” I asked. 

Alex smiled wider, and his cries turned to coos made it impossible not to smile back at him. 

I rocked my son back and forth as I carried him into the study and to my desk, describing to him that we would be looking through my compositions and making adjustments as needed. He listened to my every word, eyes wide as he gazed up at me.

“Sing with me,” I said, holding up a sheet of music. “Your first duet, Alex, how do you feel about that?” 

I hummed the tune and Alex giggled to himself, making vocalizations of his own that strayed from the music. His mirth delighted me and I looked away from my music, gaze focused exclusively on my son. 

“You’re only six months old, Alex, you cannot begin changing the melodies already.” 

He squealed in delight, kicking wildly for me to continue, which I gladly did, finding myself entertained by his response. Of course he was born with a love for music. He was the son of a composer and soprano. Music, it seemed, was in his soul. 

Alex had only arrived thirteen weeks earlier, but it felt as though he’d been part of my life for an eternity, and I couldn’t imagine the house without him. My love for him had been instantaneous, and it had filled me so completely that I could not recall such a pure form of adoration. 

I hummed the tune for him, bouncing him on my knee while I looked from the music to his round, smiling face, and wondered what Christine would have thought of our son.

Our son. 

The first week I thought of nothing but Christine and how Alex belonged to her. No, that wasn’t quite true. I’d thought of Alex as belonging to Christine for a few hours after she had left him with Madeline and Meg. After that, when he was in my bedroom, urinating on my bed and soiling his nappies, he had become mine. 

I still longed for his mother, but I was content with our son in my arms. He was perfect in every way, his features a replica of the woman who had left both father and son behind. One day, I hoped Christine would realize what she was missing and return not only for Alex, but for me as well. Only then could we be complete.

“Erik?” Madeline called. 

“We are in the study,” I said over my shoulder.

Madeline appeared a moment later, hands clasped as she tilted her head to the side and observed Alexandre in my arms. She smiled at the two of us, and my heart soared with pride.

“Make sure you are supporting his head and neck when you bounce him,” Madeline offered. 

“I am,” I answered. 

There were so many small details that needed to be remembered, so many ways to keep Alex safe and comfortable. One wrong move and I feared harming him, my infant son. 

“He responds well to you,” Madeline commented. “He knows you are his father and that you love him.”

It was the most unexpected type of affection, one that was indescribably pure. Alex was mine and the love I felt for him was unlike anything else I’d ever experienced. Whenever he was in my arms, I felt a swell of pride and joy that I’d never thought possible. 

I also felt something far darker when I looked at Alex, a question that constantly infiltrated my thoughts. 

Could he really be mine?

Christine had said so and we had been intimate, so it was not difficult to believe that I had fathered a child, but…

Christine had also come to me a second time and later informed me that she had lost the child I had put in her womb. 

Given that revelation, I had not expected her to bear a child at all, but when I considered the timing of Alex’s arrival, his age, and gestation, everything added up. The more I thought about it, the more I wanted nothing more than for Alex to be mine. Really, there was only one other possibility…

But I didn’t want to think of that. Raoul de Chagny had taken enough from me. I would be damned if he took my son, that insufferable bastard. 

oOo

 

Word unfortunately reached Carlotta that someone within the theater wanted her spot as the principal soprano, and her wrath quickly spread through the entire Opera House, along with whispers that whoever was behind the ploy to unseat her was going to find out the true meaning of hell. 

She didn’t know who wanted her place, but the diva sauntered through the theater during rehearsals for the ballet and pulled aside three of the dancers, all of whom she interrogated while I was watching from the flies. 

Heaven only knew how anyone could possibly be afraid of that wind bag, but all three of the girls were brought to tears defending themselves and swore they did not know who may have been taking lessons. 

The last part came as a surprise as it seemed as though aside from Meg, none of the other dancers  or members of the chorus were particularly fond of Christine and I had fully expected every single one of them to utter her name. 

However, bringing the ballet dancers to tears seemed like enough to satisfy Carlotta. She briskly left the stage in order to don her wig and gown for a very special dress rehearsal that would be the first of several performances and gatherings to officially retire the old manager and welcome in the new owners. 

It seemed that the only way in which the new managers had taken over was financial responsibility. The old managers had paid for the first ten days of the month. The new managers had not paid a cent. 

Given that it was fifteen days into the new month and I had yet to receive my payment, I fully intended to make my presence known if the two fools who thought they ran the opera did not immediately provide the requested funds. 

Poligny had never been late with one of my payments. For years he provided the exact amount the first of the month as long as it didn’t fall on a holiday or the weekend, in which case the funds were deposited early, which pleased me. 

What the new managers needed was a warning that the Opera Ghost was not an entity they wished to trifle with and that my rules would be followed or there would be consequences. 

“Twenty-four hours or until midnight?” I wondered aloud to myself. “Midnight.”

It had a better ring to it, I decided, and was a more firm demand. As I made my way through the theater and out of the auditorium, the buzz of the theater turned to muffled voices and the soft, distant sound of the orchestra rehearsing. 

I was about to enter the kitchen and see if there was anything of interest left out to cool from the baker when I heard a soft voice further down the hall. 

“Angel?” Christine called. “Angel, are you here?”

My task was immediately abandoned as I was drawn to Christine’s frantic voice, beckoned by the sound of her addressing me. At once I turned on my heel and strode toward the chapel. 

“There, there, you needn’t cry, Christine.” 

I came to an abrupt pause. 

Who in the hell was that man and why was he consoling Christine?

“Oh! Oh, Monsieur, forgive me! I thought I was alone!” Christine gasped. 

“No, no, Mademoiselle, you must forgive me for my intrusion.” 

Silence followed. I paused. 

“My apologies, but I do not believe we have met,” Christine said. 

Another beat of silence. If this man harmed Christine, there would be hell to pay.

“Have we not, Mademoiselle?” the man softly asked. 

“I do not believe so, Monsieuer–”

“Christine! Christine, where are you?”

I gave a sigh of relief at the sound of Meg Giry’s voice as she ran down the hallway. 

“I’m in here, Meg! Excuse me, Monsieur, I am needed at once,” Christine mumbled. 

The two dancers collided in the hallway with a muffled oof! 

“Christine? Christine, from whom are you running?” Meg frantically questioned.  “Is it the ghost? Is he chasing you?”

The Ghost? Indeed, Little Meg! 

“No, Meg, I am not running from anyone, but please, we must return to the stage at once or we’ll be late to rehearsals.”

Meg released a chuckle of amusement. “Since when are you concerned about being late, Christine?”

“Since this very moment, Meg.” 

The girls dashed away while I peeked into the chapel from the servant’s hall, hands in fists and sleeves rolled up my forearms, fully prepared to knock the stranger in the nose if it came down to it. 

While I preferred remaining unseen, I was not about to let anyone harm Christine Daae. I rounded the corner, stepped toward the mirror, and found the man in question seated on the bench with his back to me as he lit several candles. 

There he sat with his head bowed in prayer, murmuring to himself, asking for God’s forgiveness and blessing. 

“I thank you, oh God, for the salvation you have offered my mother and father and the grace you bestow upon me,” he said. “I am grateful for my health and the opportunities that I am offered. You have certainly blessed me and I do not take that for granted.”

I rolled my eyes at his words, knowing he certainly did take his privileges for granted. Everyone did; it was human nature to assume that all were equally blessed with certain aspects of their lives. I, however, knew that to not be true.

The man turned ever so slightly and I caught a glimpse of his profile. He could not have been older than twenty, although I was not quite sure of his exact age. His bright blue eyes were strangely familiar, and I was certain I’d seen him previously at various performances. 

“Little Lotte,” he said in a gentle voice barely above a whisper. “How you used to let your mind wander. Are you fonder of sweets, or of shoes, or perhaps your red scarf?” 

He stood abruptly, swiped his hat off the bench, and turned to face the mirror where I stood on the other side. I watched him adjust his hat and smooth his lapels. 

Immediately I recognized Raoul de Chagny and smiled to myself. He had an excellent education and upbringing and was no threat to Christine–or–Little Lotte as he had called her.

I furrowed my brow, one question on my mind. How on earth did Raoul de Chagny know of my beloved Christine Daae?  

 

 

Notes:

Something tells me Raoul is about to shake up the theater for Erik...

Chapter 20: Korrigans

Notes:

Some Leroux accurate details in this chapter :)
Staying in the past for this one.

The final soiree for the departing managers and two men replacing them was nothing short of extravagant. The festivities started at eight on a Friday night and ended at around three in the morning with several people curled up in corners of various rooms, husbands and wives leaving separately, and quite a bit of overzealous merriment that would be the talk of Paris in every periodical circulated through the city.

Raoul de Chagny, the vicomte, was officially announced as the newest patron of the Opera Populaire early in the evening as food was served and drinks flowed freely. 

With the insistence of the managers, the vicomte was forced to give a speech he clearly had not prepared to give, and he stumbled through, red-faced and stammering for several minutes as he expressed his appreciation for the arts.

I truly felt awful for the poor young man and how uncomfortable he appeared the entire time. He slipped into the shadows, his words followed by light applause that only added to his humiliation when it came to public speaking. 

He made his rounds through the crowd, politely greeting people and shaking hands, but I never saw him again after ten-thirty that evening as I walked the rooms in a full face covering, drawing very little attention as attendees poured drink after drink. 

Christine looked like a fly stuck in a trap on the wall, clinging to the outside of the party for the most part with her hands clasped. Madeline watched over her, which prevented me from approaching as Madeline had naturally spotted me the moment I walked in. 

“Wonderful celebration, isn’t it?” Poligny said as he walked up and stood beside me with his hands behind his back. 

I had watched him throughout the night as he made his rounds. He was more animated than he’d been in the past, clearly putting on quite the performance for the guests who wished him well in his retirement. 

“Exceeding expectations,” I replied. 

“I shall miss the Opera House,” he said without sounding the least bit sincere. 

“And I am certain the Opera House shall miss you as well, Monsieur Poligny. You have served the Opera Populaire well over the years.”

“I have, haven’t I?” he proudly replied, standing a little straighter. “How kind of you to notice.”

It amused me that we spoke and he had no idea who I was or the role I had played at the Opera House. Poligny, like most people,`` was aware that he was flattered and that was all he cared about. 

He tossed back the rest of his beverage and coughed somewhat loudly. 

“Although some would say I’ve served the Opera Ghost well instead!” he grumbled, thumping his fist against his chest.

“Would the Opera Ghost agree?”

“I believe he would, Monsieur, for my part of the deal, which I had not willingly agreed to in the first place,” Poligny replied. 

Behind my mask, I lifted a brow. “You were coerced then, Monsieur Poligny?”

“No one coerces me!” He bristled at my words while he continued to cough. “Have you tried the cognac? Extremely potent.”

“I have not,” I replied. 

“More for me,” Poligny said with a chuckle before he excused himself and continued to make his rounds. 

I scanned the crowded room, feeling less confident in my plan to mingle with the opera patron and performer crowd. Most of the attendees appeared to be sufficiently inebriated, however, I had already made several rounds through the theater, listening in on conversation that didn’t interest me in the least and watching over dull entertainment. 

The full mask made it impossible to eat and I had no interest in the drinks despite my throat being dry, which had me convinced that it was time I departed, made myself tea, and composed until dawn when I would retire to my bed for a few hours. 

“Speech! Speech!” several people bellowed from a room away. 

“Well, I do have something prepared,” a female voice with an Italian accent proclaimed. 

La Sorelli, the celebrated ballerina, apparently had something to say and her biggest admirers, the youngest members of the corpse de ballet, encouraged her to give a speech.

For the life of me I couldn’t imagine who in their right mind wanted to hear La Sorelli speak. While she may have said plenty with her interpretation of dance, the woman lacked wit and never managed to say anything of interest when she opened her pretty, full lips. 

“Apparently anyone is allowed to give a speech tonight,” I muttered to myself as I continued down the hall, shaking my head.  

I was almost to the servants hall when the girls in the ballet, all of them several drinks into their evening, began to shriek. 

Their high-pitched cries nearly made me jump out of my skin and I turned on my heel, cursing under my breath. They were an obnoxious, drunken little bunch, always yelling for no particular reason.

“Madeline, get a hold of your intolerable brats,” I muttered, continuing down the hall.

“It’s him! It’s the ghost!”

Again I turned on my heel, half-expecting an entire mob of people bearing down on me. 

Thankfully the hall was nearly empty. That is, until the shrieks turned to panic and a dozen ballet dancers flowed out of the room, running in both directions with Sorelli marching out after them, waving her speech over her head.

Sorelli looked directly at me, her face twisted in frustration. “Every time!” she yelled, stamping her feet. “You drunken little imps! Ruining my speech! I’ve worked for three weeks on this!” 

It seemed as though Sorelli addressed me as there was no one else around. I shrugged and continued on my way, passing by the chapel where Christine sat alone.  

I slowed my pace, noting that she was seated with her head down in prayer. 

“Christine,” I greeted her the moment I was within the hall and behind the mirror. 

“Angel?” Her head popped up, glassy eyes wide with surprise. “I was not expecting you this evening.” 

“Have you been crying, Christine?” I asked. 

She pursed her lips and bowed her head. “I have been thinking about my father.”

“Tonight?” I questioned. “Tonight is not for sorrow, my dear. Tonight was a celebration.” 

Christine’s lips quivered. “There was a man with a violin,” she explained. “When he was walking through the rooms playing, I was reminded of my father.”

I know of whom she spoke as I’d also seen the same man entertaining people. He was not one of the men employed by the theater as the orchestra was given a night off to drink, eat, and enjoy the evening, same as anyone else. 

“Your father was a gifted musician,” I said. 

“My father sent you to me, Angel. I know in my heart that he wants us to be together.” 

Christine’s father had been part of the orchestra before I had found my way to the Opera Populaire, but I had known of him thanks to his violin being stored in the fifth cellar along with various other items. 

“Your father sent you to me,” I said. “You are a gift unlike anything else known to man or angel.”

At last Christine smiled to herself and pushed her hair back from her face. “Do you really think so?” she asked, blushing. 

“Of course I do,” I replied. 

“I do not deserve you.”

“No one else deserves me more.”

What a perfect specimen Christine was, the picture of feminine grace and beauty. When she smiled at her reflection, my heart fluttered in the most unexpected way.

I had started to fall in love with her. Day by day, lesson by lesson, moment by moment, I became enamored with her and I was certain those feelings were mutual. 

Once she auditioned with more confidence and proved herself to everyone, once she became the most valuable asset the Opera Populaire possessed, I would reveal myself to her and then she would see the man behind her voice and success. 

Already I could picture the look on her face, the gratitude and the wonder, the knowing look in her eyes when at last we met. 

She would be comfortable in my presence and glad that at last we could advance our relationship the way it was meant to be.

“Christine,” I started to say.

“Christine!” a voice bellowed over mine. “Christine Daae! Are you here?”

Christine was immediately on her feet where she whirled around, facing the door. 

“There you are!” Raoul de Chagny said. 

Christine took a step back. “Forgive me, Monsieur,” she said. 

“Christine, it’s me. Surely you recognize me,” he said, removing his hat. “Raoul. Raoul de Chagny. The little boy from the beach who saved your red scarf.”

“I cannot speak to you, Monsieur,” Christine said in return. 

Raoul’s expression slipped from his face. “Why not?” he asked.

“Because I cannot speak to you. Please leave.”

Raoul was quite taken aback by Christine’s request, but he nodded and stepped away. “I thought you would remember me,” he said. “My apologies, Mademoiselle. I heard about your father–”

“You did?” 

Raoul clutched his hat in both hands. He offered a gentle, boyish smile. “I have prayed for your father many nights, Christine. He was a wonderful man and a good friend to me in my youth.” 

Christine stood with her back to me, her expression unknown. “I miss him terribly,” she replied. 

Raoul nodded readily. “My mother and father are gone as well.”

“I am sorry for your loss,” Christine replied. 

“My parents always adored you, my mother in particular. And my sisters still tease me about how we would go door to door, begging the old mamas of Perros-Guirec to tell us stories.” Raoul lit up with excitement. “Or the korrigans!”

“They are everywhere in Perros,” Christine agreed.

“Yes, you used to tell me you spotted them all over the place and I could never find a single one.” Raoul bowed his head. “I suppose you don’t remember those days though given that you do not remember me.”

Christine took a step closer. “You were not quick enough. I do remember that.”

Both of them paused, grinning at one another before Christine looked away.

“I should…I should go, Monsieur,” she said softly. “But it was lovely chatting with you.”

“The pleasure has been mine, Mademoiselle Daae. I hope to see you again.”

“Monsieur de Chagny, would you please walk me back to my dressing room?” Christine asked.

The boy before her lit up, no different than a dog desiring to please its master. “I would be honored.” 

 

Chapter 21: Love and Rage

Alex was a child genius when it came to music, far more talented at an early age than Amadeus. At least I thought so judging by how he vocalized when I patted him on the back as he laid across my lap, belly down. 

He loved to be sprawled out over my legs, performing his infant version of singing while I tapped him like a human drum in order to make different sounds. I wasn’t sure who was more amused by our musical session, but I assumed it was me as I could not stop smiling to myself when he showed interest in creating different patterns of sound. 

“I love dada,” he said, drawing out each word as I patted out a rhythm. 

“And?” I prompted.

“Aunt May!” 

He could not say Meg’s name properly, but it didn’t matter as Meg was delighted every time Alex called for her. 

“Does Alex need me?” Meg shouted from somewhere in the house. 

“Yes!” Alex yelled back.

“No, he is fine,” I said. 

Alex immediately struggled to slide head-first off of my lap so that he could run to Meg. Clearly he had no idea she had returned from an appointment or he would have crawled up her leg, using her skirt and blouse like a circus performer the moment he heard her walk through the door. 

“May!” Alex yelled.

“You are with me,” I said, turning him over so that he landed on his feet and not his head. 

“May! Need May!” 

There were moments when Alex made me feel like the most important person in the world and times like these where I understood that I could not possibly compete with Meg for my son’s affections. 

“Alex, stay with your father,” Meg called. “I have to leave again anyhow.”

“Go with you!” Alex insisted. 

“No,” Meg said. 

Foolishly she walked into the room and Alex threw himself at her, clinging to her skirts. 

“Go with Aunt May!” Alex said, burying his face against the striped silk material of her skirt. 

“Not today, my darling,” Meg said, settling him onto her hip where she kissed him all over. “I have an appointment that little boys are not allowed to attend.”

My breath caught as I knew with whom Meg had an appointment. I’d read the correspondence earlier in the week, unbeknownst to Meg, who never inspected the post. 

With this prior knowledge, I immediately stood and held my arms out to take Alex back from Meg, who would not look me in the eye. 

“No!” Alex protested. 

“You must stay with me,” I said firmly. 

Alex crumpled his face. “You are not May!”

“No, I am not, I am your father and you must stay with me while Meg is away,” I said. 

Alex was too young to reason with and yet I made every attempt to still explain to him as if somehow my words would console him. 

“I want May!” Alex yelled. 

“Later,” I said. 

“I won’t be long,” Meg promised.

“Now!” Alex shouted. 

His voice was piercing and I shuddered at the high-pitched sound of his voice, which was followed by tears. 

“Oh, Alex, don’t cry,” Meg said. “You are going to make me cry.”  

“Go,” I said. “Go before he starts screaming.”

“I think it’s too late for–”

“Go!” I shouted just as Alex began screaming for her. “Now!”

Meg bolted from the room while I clung to Alex, who was remarkably strong despite his size and almost impossible to hold without dropping. He wriggled his arms free and I caught him around the waist while he kicked and twisted in fury. 

“Stop being so difficult! I don’t want to drop you,  Alex,” I said. 

“Put me down!” 

He shrieked with rage the likes of which I’d never heard from my son, but in a way that was still very unfortunately familiar. 

He sounded exactly like his mother when she was enraged. In those terrifying moments when she was angry with me, I stepped away, unsure of what else I could possibly do to calm her. 

With Alex, however, there was no letting go. I held him as tight as I could to keep him from hurting himself. No matter what, I would not drop him on the ground or harm him despite how he fought me in order to chase Meg. 

He writhed and wriggled as hard as he could, then sucked in a breath, looked me dead in the eye, and opened his mouth, teeth bared as though he might bite me. 

It was hardly the worst that would have been done to me in my lifetime. I’d been burned with cigars, struck with metal bars, boots, and leather whips. I’d had a noose around my neck, a pistol to my jaw and temple, and a knife to my throat. 

But despite everything, I didn’t want Alex to bite me. I wanted him to understand that I held him and would not let go because I loved him. 

“Alex,” I said softly. “Please just…just let me hold you.”

Tears pricked my eyes. No one had ever allowed me to hold them, to be the one giving comfort. I had picked Alex up numerous times when he fell on the rug or bumped his head on my desk. Rarely did he cry unless he was exhausted, but he always crawled into my arms and let me hold him as if he knew how much I wanted to be the one to tell him everything was going to be all right. 

If he bit me, it was my own fault for asking to hold him when he was inconsolable. But still I tried to comfort him in an erratic moment.

“I know you want her back,” I said, the words meant for both of us concerning two different people. Alex wanted Meg back more than anyone else in the world and I wanted Christine, who was meeting with Meg three streets from our home. 

“I love her,” Alex whimpered.

“She loves you as well,” I said. 

Those words were meant exclusively for Alex. Christine did not love me, not in the way I wanted or desired. She had cared for me just enough, but she had not loved me in the way I most needed to be loved. 

I had thought of what I wanted and was denied every day of my life from the time I had been a boy of perhaps six or seven, when I first noticed how other children were treated by their families and friends, of which I had neither. 

My mother and father had not been parents to me. My mother had been distant and my father cruel. No other children had ever played with me and I knew nothing of how to interact with others. 

Christine could not love me because I was not capable of being loved. There was something wrong with me that was far worse than my appearance. She had made that very clear.

After I had been taken from my parents’ home by my uncle, after he died on the desolate road on our way to Paris and I had been chained and displayed by the traveling fair, I longed to have my fortune read by the fortune teller in the group. 

An old, mostly blind woman who wore jewels on each of her arthritic fingers and elaborately embellished skirts, told fortunes for silver as well as offered sage advice to those who did not know where their path would lead them. 

“Why can I not be loved?” I wanted to ask her. “Is it my face? Is that the reason?”

I imagined her frowning at me. “No, child, it is not merely your terrible face, but the inside of you.”

“What do you mean ‘the inside of me’?”

“Your heart, boy, your heart is crooked.”

I would touch my chest, horrified that my heart was no good. “How do I fix this?”

Surely there had to be a way to straighten out my crooked heart, to make it so that others would be able to love me and I to love them in return. Surely there was a way to stitch my heart into the proper position so that I was normal.

“You cannot fix a crooked heart,” I imagined her telling me with a dismayed shake of her head. “You were not meant to be loved or to love. You were meant to be scorned and despised.” 

“That isn’t fair!” I wanted to scream. “I have done nothing wrong! I do not deserve to live the rest of my life unloved!” 

The old woman with her murky eyes would simply shrug, refusing to raise her voice. 

“I do not make the rules, boy. I merely tell you what I see inside of you.” 

No one, not even my own self, would have ever imagined that the boy with the crooked heart would grow into a man with a child of my own, standing in his own home above ground, compositions strewn across the desk unnoticed in favor of clinging to a little boy whose chest heaved in frustration. 

No one, not even myself, would have ever imagined that I would have been able to ignore the crookedness of my heart and love someone as much as I loved Alex. 

No one, not even that terrible old crone with her false fortunes could see my future. 

She was wrong about me. Perhaps not completely, but she was wrong nonetheless. I loved my son more than life itself and he loved me in return. 

Alex placed his head on my shoulder and patted my back. He took a deep, shuddering breath and wiped his nose on my shirt. 

“Don’t be sad, dada, I love you too,” Alex said between hyperventilating inhales. 

“I love you as well, Alex, and I want you to stay with me until Aunt Meg returns. She will be back. I promise you.”

He nodded and wiped his nose on me again. “I stay with you so that you are not sad.” 

Eyes closed, I held Alex tighter, ignoring the dampness of my own eyes and the wetness of my shoulder where Alex cleaned his nose and dried his tears.

Christine could not love me, but Alex could, and despite my own damaged heart, I would love him deeper than I’d ever loved anyone or anything else.  

 

OoO

 

I didn’t think much of Raoul de Chagny walking Christine Daae back to her dressing room. In fact, Raoul reminded Christine of her happy childhood and I, for one, was quite pleased to see Christine smile. 

She was often melancholy, which worried me as I hated to think of such a young and vibrant lady plagued with the same sadness that fell upon my shoulders.  

“My father and I traveled from village to village entertaining people,” Christine excitedly told me on several occasions. 

I never stopped her from telling the same story as I appreciated her enthusiasm and willingness to share her life with me. 

“All of the windows in every village had flower boxes and there was ivy creeping up the sides of these little stone houses. There were carts with ponies and shepherd boys with their dogs and sheep. Between the houses, you could see the boats in the ocean and the gulls in the sky.”

What a perfect, storybook childhood, one far removed from what I had experienced at her age. The village where I had been born had similar homes and the sea was not a terrible distance, but I stole away at night only to be found and punished by my father for wandering off from the cellar where I was confined. 

Every evening of freedom, of exploring unnoticed by others, was filled with both trepidation and exhilaration. I ate scraps left on back steps for tramps and stray dogs, sipped milk from saucers meant for tomcats. By the light of the moon, I crept through alleys toward the sound of violins, pianos, drums, and a vocalist entertaining crowds at the tavern.  

Sometimes I dared to close my eyes, fold my arm around my thin frame, and listen to the music, finding solace in the melody. I imagined myself floating away to distant lands where I was a welcomed visitor voraciously learning the language and customs. 

But there was no escape for me. Each brief excursion was followed by a beating that left me unable to do more than curl up with my knees to my chest, numb and despondent for days.  

“All summer long it would be the two of us. Father with his violin, me with my voice. He would play and I would sing and the old mums and fathers would come out from their homes and shops to tell my father what a pretty little girl he had to sing for him.”

The way that Christine smiled when she spoke made me smile as well, grateful for the joy in her voice and the animation that accompanied her words.  

She had the type of childhood that I longed to experience for a mere day, one filled with wonder and adoration rather than the fear of being found and punished. 

“What did you sing?” I would ask, merely to hear her speak and keep her company a while longer.

“Folk songs, nothing that challenges me as much as you do,” Christine replied. She paused, clasping her fingers. “Angel, may I ask what your life was like before we came to know one another?”

Her question caught me off-guard. 

Before our chats in the chapel, before our voice lessons, before this game of make-believe, there had many long, terrible years of silence. 

There had been countless times where I wandered the streets of Paris late into the night, keeping my distance from the handful of people I passed.

There had also been plenty of early mornings when, restless and unable to sleep, I watched the sunrise from the rooftop of the Opera Populaire and imagined the day when I viewed both sunsets and sunrises with someone beside me. 

I ached for the opportunity to be part of society, to share my music and engage openly in public without fear of being ridiculed or driven away. 

“Before you were in my life, Christine,” I said, “there was nothing. With you beside me, the future is limitless.” 

 

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 4 of The Erik Kire series (TBA)