3Notes: Once again, this chapter was beta-ed by SymphonyinA. Please check out her works on her page.
The Face in the Mirror
Christine wakes, for the second time, to an empty bed. The sun is already peeking through the edge of the curtain. She jumps out of bed and hurries to pull back the curtains so she can bathe in the sunshine. Before she entered Erik's underground realm, the late-morning sun had been a simple joy. Now it was a luxury. She quickly changes from her nightgown into her petticoats, eager to start the new day.
Unfortunately, her room lacks a wash basin, so she must go into the bathroom for her toilette. The thought fills her with apprehension. She chides herself for these unfounded fears-if anything is wrong, Erik would know of it.
Cautiously, she peers into the bathroom. The room is unchanged since last night, aside from being better lit. Yet, her nerves remain on edge as she enters.
She stands at the sink and turns the faucet knobs. The cold water on her face clears her head. Gazing into the wall-length mirror, she notes that her reflection looks healthier now. The honey-colored curls and limpid blue eyes are still the same, as is the round face unaltered by age, but now there is a sheen in her hair and a flush to her cheeks. It was not so in the days before her marriage. At the time, her horror at Erik's rage and sorrow for his suffering, not to mention her confused feelings of love for both him and Raoul, had taken a toll on her. Her eyes were swollen, her cheeks gaunt, and her face drained of color. Looking half-alive, she had left Erik, and looking half-alive, she had returned to him.
She opens the drawers, searching for Galen's cream. To her relief, Erik has supplied only a few simple cosmetics, instead of his usual bewildering array of products. There is a jar of cream, a little palette with powders, a stick of lip rouge, and a pencil which she assumes is to be used for tracing her brows. She uses the cream to finish cleaning her face and hands and leaves the rest aside. Like all men, Erik prefers his wife's natural beauty. Perhaps because of her modest upbringing, Christine herself has little desire to wear makeup off the stage, though it was an open secret that even the most genteel women used subtle amounts of it to enhance their natural features.
She takes up her silver-backed hairbrush and combs pomatum into her locks, wincing as she hits a snag. Her hair was the envy of her fellow actresses back at the Opera, as she never needed irons to achieve luxurious waves. However, these same waves are easy to tangle, especially as Erik loves playing with them. Lifting her hair to brush the underside, she hums the tune to the old song Harpans Kraft and wonders if she should try a half-chignon. Though the style is long outdated, Erik does enjoy seeing her tresses cascade down her neck and shoulders.
A quick patter of footsteps echoes through the bathroom, interrupting Christine's song. She stands petrified as her blood drains to her feet. Casting a glance at the door, she finds only empty air, nor is there anyone to be seen within the bathroom itself, especially not in the bathtub that had been the center of the strange activity from the previous night.
Before Christine can let out the breath she is holding, a chill runs down her spine. Or, rather, a freezing cold gust explodes out from inside her, piercing deep into the marrow of her bones. She stiffens and stands straight, staring into the mirror to find, in place of her reflection, a gruesome apparition. Long, limp, loose black hair frames a bloodstained face; gushing blood covers its nose and jaw, dribbling down its simple white chemise, as it faces her with wild, bloodshot eyes.
Frozen in fear, the only thought that passes through Christine's mind is the Dames Blanches, which the old wives of Perros had always spoken of with fear and reverence; white robed wights haunting abandoned structure that beat those who incurred their wrath within an inch of their lives. Inside the mirror, the apparition fixes its unmoving stare on her and reaches out a bloody hand. Blood rushes back in her veins, her heartbeat fills her ears; she finally tears her eyes away from the image and runs.
In a frenzy, nearly tripping over her petticoats, she tears her way through the hall, shrieking for her husband.
"Erik! Erik! Help! Erik!"
She almost bowls over the man at the top of the stairwell as she collides with him. Even as he holds her by her shoulders, she struggles and bats at him with the hairbrush that she only now realizes she is still holding. She only calms when she hears his familiar voice.
"What's wrong, Christine? Why do you cry out?"
Knowing herself to be safe, the tension drains out of her, along with her strength. She collapses against him, her free hand clutching tightly at his coat.
"The bloody woman..."
This is all she can say before her vision blurs, and she swoons.
When she regains consciousness, she is lying on something soft as cold hands bathe her temples. She opens her eyes to Erik hovering over her, concerned.
"Erik…" she murmurs.
He shakes his head and places a finger over her lips. She watches him go pour a glass of brandy from the bottle now resting on her bureau.
Trying to take deep breaths, she sorts through her memories. She had been at her toilette, and a bloody form had appeared in her mirror… A wave of nausea hits her and she squeezes her eyes closed.
Erik's footsteps rush toward her, and she smells the brandy in the cup that is being placed at her lips. She realizes she had fainted in Erik's arms. Erik, the former Opera Ghost, the master mask-maker, the Trapdoor-Lover who once put a secret passageway behind her mirror…
She pushes the cup away, greatly irritated. In spite of her nausea, she opens her eyes and tries to sit up, only for Erik to push her back onto the bed.
"Hush, now. You've had a bad shock." To soothe her, he starts softly humming the tune of a lullaby.
It is almost enough to send her back to sleep, but she is too frustrated to listen.
"Erik." She says again, more firmly this time. "You promised me a house without any trapdoors."
"Yes." Erik replies, confused. "And now we are living in it."
He once again raises the brandy to her lips. She shakes her head, even more exasperated at his innocent facade.
"Then what was it I saw in my mirror?"
"You saw something in your mirror?" He parrots her question back at her, but there is no mockery in his tone.
"Yes. The bloodstained ghost. I saw her, Erik." Angry and disappointed, she crosses her arms and glares at him, waiting for him to spin some story about his newest persona. Though she knows the danger of prying too deeply into his affairs, she cannot bring herself to care right now.
Instead of giving her an explanation, Erik places one hand upon her forehead and another upon his own. Shaking his head, he states, "You do not have a fever."
A hint of doubt creeps into Christine's mind. While Erik could quickly forget his crimes, he could never resist boasting about the cleverness of his tricks. Surely, if he is the culprit, he would tell her something-anything-of his plans.
"She was in my mirror. I saw her." She repeats, trying to convince him, but also trying to convince herself.
He remains confused and incredulous, adding further to her frustration.
"I really saw her! Let me show you!" She cries out, now desperate.
She struggles to stand, but Erik presses her down. "Stop. You must rest."
"But the ghost…"
"There are no ghosts here." Immediately after saying that, his demeanor softens and he smiles. "Well, except for one. But you have married him and convinced him that he is a man."
He laughs at his own joke, which proves to be too much for Christine to bear. She turns her face away from him, hot tears stinging her eyes.
"You don't believe me."
Her anger, fear, and confusion burst out in a torrent of tears. She curls up, hugging her knees and sobbing. Vaguely, she is aware of leaning against a hard surface, and something stroking her hair from scalp to tip. She does not know how long she spends wailing, but eventually the emotions drain out of her, and her cries die down to a hiccup.
Water dribbles onto her forehead and slips down her cheeks. She realizes that Erik is embracing her and looks up to find him weeping. The pathetic sight sends her into a fresh bout of tears. Immediately after, she recalls that she is still angry and pulls herself away from him, brushing his hand aside when he reaches for her again.
At this, Erik essentially rolls off the bed to prostrate himself on the floor.
"Oh Christine," he moans miserably, "please forgive your Erik. He did not mean to make you cry. It hurts me so much when you cry."
"Mm," she sniffles.
Erik interprets the little noise to mean forgiveness and gets up to sit on the bed. Offering her a handkerchief to wipe her tears, he asks softly, "Would you feel better if we go and see your mirror?"
"Yes," she whimpers, embarrassed at how weak she sounds. She quickly cleans her face and blows her nose into the handkerchief.
They wait a few minutes more, until both of them no longer feel the need to cry. Then, Erik takes her hand and helps her rise to her feet. As they make their way to the bathroom, Christine follows behind her husband, clutching his hand tightly, much like how she would when walking through the labyrinth of the Opera's cellars.
To both her relief and disappointment, the ghost has disappeared from the mirror. Not even a trace of blood remains to indicate the events that transpired. Since the danger has passed, she detaches herself from Erik and moves toward the glass.
"It was right here," she states, raising her hand to touch the cold surface.
Her hands slide down to the bottom rim, groping along the edge, checking for any lever or hinge that indicates a hidden mechanism. Her motions become more frantic as she finds nothing on the mirror's bottom or sides. She tries to climb onto the sink to reach the top. Erik, seeing this, lifts her by her waist. Yet, she once again fails to find any gimmicks.
Once Erik lets her down, she examines the surrounding areas: the medicine cupboard, the faucets, the sink cabinets. Her search still yields no results. Finally, she sinks to her knees, exhausted and unsure of herself.
Erik has stood to the side and watched her, almost amused at her antics. He crouches next to her and holds her around her shoulders.
"There is nothing more to see here, child. Now, you should get to bed. Perhaps you only saw a trick of the light because you were overly tired. Poor girl, you did travel a long way."
His soothing voice washes over her and she wants to believe him, but the bleeding spectre seemed so real. She cannot give up and admit it is only a hallucination; to do so would be to question her own sanity.
"I'm not as strong or brilliant as you are. You'd know if there were any hidden tricks, wouldn't you?" Her tone becomes increasingly pleading. "Can you check the mirror for me, Erik? I'll go and rest if you do."
He nods, then stands up. She follows after him and watches carefully as he traces his skilled fingers over the mirror. As he moves toward the bottom right corner, she notices something she missed in her previous panic: a long white object resting on a little pedestal, which, to her nearsighted eyes, almost blends into the similarly colored wall.
She jumps to her feet, sneaks around Erik's side, and seizes the object before he can react. He starts up and looks toward her.
"What do you have there?"
She shakes her head. "I don't know. Do you know what it does?"
"Let me see it." He holds his hand out.
She shakes her head again and steps back from him. She runs her hand over the thing's length and flicks off the cap at the top, revealing a circle of colored bristles. "Why, it looks like a toothbrush. Is it a toothbrush?"
He regards it as she holds it up. "Perhaps it is. I would like to have a closer look."
She backs away further, brandishing the device as if defending herself. "I can hold it up for you. See? What difference does it make?"
He sighs, growing impatient. "Christine, what are you doing?"
"Nothing. I'm just curious." She means for her laugh to be playful, but it comes out hysterical. "I'm a woman, after all, and this little thing is so very strange."
The top of the object resembles a toothbrush, but the handle is thick and heavy, made of a material different from both wood and metal. More ominously, there is a large button in the center. She is tempted to press the button, to see if it opens up some secret passage, but thinks better of it, as it might activate something far more dangerous.
"Christine, come now, give me that thing."
Erik takes a step toward her. In response, she hides the mysterious object behind her back. The more he convinces her to relinquish it, the more she is sure it is a switch for a trap, whether his work or another's. Her mind travels to a far-off day, deep in the bowels of the Opera Garnier, when, under the terrible eye of a fallen angel, she had to choose between the lives of her lover and the rest of Paris. Once again, she is the only thing standing between Erik and some great disaster, and once again, she tries to distract him and assuage his anger. "Not yet. Tell me if it's really a toothbrush. Please, Erik, just tell me that."
His long legs close the distance between them in an instant. She grasps the handle tightly. Just as he takes hold of her arm, her thumb brushes the button and the device springs to life, whirring and vibrating in her hand. She shrieks and drops it like it is a burning brand. As it hits the tiled floor, she stares at it, unable to avert her eyes while she awaits the inevitable explosion.
It never comes.
Instead, the brush simply whirls like a windmill, the motion sending the gizmo into a slow circle. She giggles shakily in relief and bends to retrieve it.
"Oh. It wasn't a grasshopper after all."
Erik shoots a disdainful look at the contraption. "Of course not. Erik's tricks would never include such crude devices."
She offers the gadget to him sheepishly. He touches the spinning bristles, examines the handle, holds it up to his ear, and finally places it back on the sink counter.
"I believe it is a brush attached to a dynamo. Quite harmless." He smiles and offers her his hand. "Shall we go back now, my dear?"
Utterly defeated, she nods and allows him to take her back to the bedroom and lay her in bed. He tucks her in and hums a lullaby until she relaxes. However, she is not yet asleep when he rises to leave; she grabs onto his sleeve.
"Stay." She mumbles.
He takes her hand, kisses her fingers, and sits down next to her.
"Aren't you tired too?" she asks as she closes her eyes. Given how early he slept last night, their journey must have taken a toll on him too.
"Ah, my darling, always so kind," he sighs blissfully, overwhelmed with the knowledge that this angelic creature cares for him. "No, your husband might be an old man, but he does not yet tire easily. But I will stay with you as long as you wish."
"Alright. And I'm sorry-"
He presses down on her lips, silencing her before she can finish her apology. "No more. You have strained your voice enough for today."
She opens her eyes and gives him a pouting look. She is peeved that he would be so quick to think of her voice, but also embarrassed that she had given no consideration to the subject.
He is tempted to kiss those full lips, but settles for kissing her forehead instead.
"Now, sleep. I promise, there will be no more ghosts when you wake up."
Though his tone is gentle and reassuring, the gleam in his eyes indicates that he will accept no disobedience. Reminded of his time as her "Angel of Music", she can only comply.
When Christine wakes for the second time that day, it is late into the afternoon. She sits up and sees Erik leaning by the bedpost, his eyes closed. She decides against waking him and steps out of bed, intending to explore the back garden. Sheer fabric rustles against her skin, and she realizes, dismayed, that she is back in her nightgown.
She is in the process of lacing up her corset when Erik calls to her, his angelic voice hovering over her head, harsh and commanding, "What do you think you are doing?"
She cringes and turns back, feeling guilty despite the fact she has done nothing wrong. As innocently as possible, she answers, "Dressing. I want to go-"
"Did I not tell you to stay silent and rest?" He glares at her, once again the stern mentor and caretaker.
"But…" She opens her mouth to protest, then shuts it. She knows that he is right; her earlier fit of screaming and crying have taxed her voice. Instead, she just motions at the door to the hall.
"If you need anything, I shall get it for you. Now, lie down. You know you're not feeling well." His expression softens, and his voice becomes gentle. "...And I would hate to see you hurt yourself further."
The sunlight, she is tempted to say. Shut within the underground house, she had resigned herself to not knowing morning or night. Yet now, to have the sunlight before her eyes, but being unable to step into it, nearly drives her mad. She would cry, but she has already cried enough for today. Taking a cushion from the corner pile, she marches toward a window and flumps down, staring moodily out at the yard..
"You may open the window if you want fresh air." Erik suggests, crouching down next to her. "But you must not leave this room. You've had enough excitement for today."
With some effort, the two of them lift up the long unused window. A cloud of dust drifts onto Erik's hair, and she barely resists laughing at the sight. She helps him shake out the dust, and then smooth his unruly black hair into a presentable style-to compensate for his face, he believes his fashion sense must always be impeccable.
The cool, crisp air and the mellow sunlight does wonders for her state of mind. She leans outward, greedily taking it in. Behind her, Erik reminds her to be careful, lest she lean too far and fall. Eventually, he pulls her back down onto the cushion, but allows her to lean her head against the window sill.
For the remaining daylight hours, Erik keeps her company, regaling her with stories, entertaining her with his sleights of hand, showing her sketches of his marvelous automatons; anything to distract her from thoughts of the outside. He only leaves her side once to fetch her a cup of tea-a light, fragrant green blend flavored with honey, much different from his usual dark, Russian fare. When night falls, he settles her into bed, but declines to join her for the time being.
At first, she waits for him to return. However, as the minutes drag on, she senses her chance. Reasoning that a quick stroll downstairs would not hurt after having been confined for so long, she slips on a dressing robe and descends into the dining room.
The lights have been switched on, making her progress easier. She first walks around the dining room, then the kitchen, relaxing when Erik is nowhere to be seen. The kitchen carries the fragrance of a freshly cooked meal, sparking her hunger. She finds an open tin of sugar biscuits on the kitchen island and takes one. While Erik is not fond of sweet snacks, she herself enjoys biscuits of all types, but must limit her consumption to keep her voice clear. Munching on the cookie, she heads toward the parlor next.
Suddenly the black pane in the center or the parlor flickers, and, as if a window is opening into a different world, strangely clothed people appear through the glass, moving and speaking. Christine stares at the glass, mesmerized as the scenes shift; sometimes close to her, sometimes far away; sometimes outdoors, sometimes indoors; sometimes showing only one person, sometimes showing two or more. Unable to control her curiosity, she steps closer and closer, as if being drawn into this new world. Finally, she stands only a breath away from the glass, bathed in an otherworldly light.
She reaches up to touch the surface, to confirm whether or not this is real. The moment her fingertips make contact, the images in the glass twist and blur, and finally blink out of existence, to be replaced by a shredded tapestry of multicolored vertical lines. She gasps and recoils, her fingers tingling with the heat of the screen, unable to understand what is happening.
Out of the corner of her eye, something moves. She spins around to see Erik, who glares disapprovingly at her.
"I got tired of lying down all the time," she explains, doing her best to keep her voice to a whisper. "I was going to come up soon. But then there were people moving in that glass. There really were!"
She almost panics as she realizes he might not believe her. However, the glass flickers again, and the images of people return.
"Is it magic?" she clings to his arm, half-fascinated, half-scared.
Erik shakes his head and replies impatiently, "No, it is merely a feat of science. Now, come upstairs and I shall tell you how it is done."
She nods and follows him. Now that he has found her, she has no other choice. And after this newest shock, she is fine with letting him cradle and cosset her.
The glass, Erik explains, is part of the new technology of moving people are not real, merely recorded images like a photograph. However, when photographs taken quickly in sequence are strung together, they create the illusion of movement. Essentially, this invention is a more advanced version of the magic lanterns used at the carnival.
Even with this explanation, the procedures involved are so arcane that they might as well be magic. Still trying to wrap her mind around the concept, she falls asleep. Yet, her dreams give her no peace, sending her back again and again to the day she first saw Erik as a man, when the chandelier dropped, and she was pulled down beneath the ground.
A feeling of dread remains with Christine into the next morning. Caught between waking and sleeping when she first opened her eyes, she almost screams as she sees Erik lying next to her. Fortunately, she remembers that much has happened since he revealed himself to her, and now he is the one protecting her from ghosts in the mirror.
Or was it a ghost? Surely it was just a trick of her tired eyes. Yet the bloody face is clear in her mind.
She forces herself to get out of bed and change her clothes. She has had enough of rest and recuperation.
Just like the day before, she enters the bathroom. She stares into the mirror and her reflection stares back at her. She closes her eyes, counting to ten before opening them again; nothing changes. Yet, she keeps expecting something strange to appear. Her hands tremble as she goes through her morning grooming routine.
"Zut!" She hisses a mild curse as she drops a hairpin yet again. For almost half an hour, she has been trying to dress her hair, but both her hands and hair refuse to obey her.
"Just leave it down." Erik's voice reaches her ears before his reflection appears behind hers. He sweeps up a handful of her hair and tenderly kisses the tangled locks.
She laughs and shakes her head, pulling her hair out of his palm. "I can't. I'm going out to the garden."
"Where only your husband shall see you," he comments, rubbing the silky ends of her hair between his fingers, "and he finds you most beautiful like this."
She swats at his hand with her brush. "Stop that. It'll get tangled."
Their banter calms her down, enough to wind her hair into a loose, lopsided chignon. Erik compliments her appearance profusely; she will never be anything less than heavenly for him. They make it down the stairs and to the glass doors in the back of the house without encountering any apparitions.
Compared to the front yard, the wide back garden is disorganized but thriving. Several shrubs are still in bloom, alongside bright yellow dandelions that peek out from among the green grass. Christine rushes through the doors so quickly that they might as well as not exist. Finally stepping out into the morning sun, she becomes a child again: spreading her arms to embrace the light, finding animals in the shape of the fluffy white clouds, tucking flowers into her hair and the lapels of Erik's suit, running into the overgrown shrubs in chase of a passing bird. She even asks Erik's help to climb a plum tree whose branches peek over the garden wall.
During the course of her frolic, the sun climbs in the sky until it is near noontime. The heat drains her strength and she curls up to relax in the shade of the plum tree. Meanwhile, Erik, giving rein to his curiosity, studies an unfamiliar plant. She is ready for a nap when a cloud passes over the sun, casting a shadow over the garden.
And then a ghost appears.
Under the plum tree, only a little distance from Christine, a wispy figure stretches a white hand toward a low-hanging plum. She scrambles to her feet and tries to back away without attracting its notice, but it nevertheless turns to look at her. They lock eyes, and she notes that the spectre has the same face and eyes as the creature in her mirror, but is now clean of blood. It is an androgynous figure, shorter and smaller than even her own delicate frame, but dressed in a man's white shirt and trousers. A thick, black fringe of hair hangs over a pair of dark, heavy-lidded eyes set in its ashen face and a long braid trails down to its knees.
For several seconds, both of them remain still. The ghost is the first to move, the corners of its mouth twitching up in a smile. At this unnerving act, Christine turns and runs, calling for her husband who seems, at this time, far away.
"Erik!"
"Is something the matter?" He is at her side in an instant, enveloping her in his arms protectively.
She buries her face in his bony chest and gasps, "It's here! The ghost!"
However, when she finds the courage to look up, she finds the being has vanished.
"I-I really did see it…." She trails off, dejected. "Sorry. I'm being silly again."
The irony of trying to convince Erik of a ghost's existence is not lost on her. She casts her eyes downward to avoid seeing his incredulous expression, but he tips her chin up and looks into her eyes.
"I believe you," he tells her with utmost sincerity, a certain resolve in his voice. He would not disparage her innocent beliefs. If she is truly convinced there is a ghost haunting their house, he will find it for her, or otherwise use his talents to create one. With the features of his death's head contorted in a rage more horrifying than any apparition, he shoots a withering glare in the area of the plum tree and snarls, "And any ghosts here will learn the price of bothering my wife!"
Immediately, a plum tears away from the branches and hurls itself at Erik's head. He easily catches it, but then a gust of wind rips through the garden, rustling the grass and throwing the yard door open.
Erik crushes the plum, sending its dark juice running through his pale digits. He chases the invisible spirit to the door, but just as he takes two steps into the streets, the scent of Christine's perfume drifting from behind reminds him of her presence. It distracts him from his rage long enough to notice his surroundings. With a brief oath, he claps a hand over his terrible, bare face and retreats into the yard.
As he pulls the wooden door shut, his wife grabs onto his arm, her fingers digging into the fabric of his morning coat.
"Is it gone?" she asks with shaky breaths.
He glances around, confirming she is the only other person present, before slipping his hand away from his face and replying, "Yes. For the time being."
She stares strangely at him, then turns to the side, covering her mouth with her and making several stifled noises. When he lets out a confused sound, she looks back up, her eyes filled with mirth.
"Oh, love. You've got a little mess. It's adorable."
Plum juice streaks down Erik's face, as if he was a naughty boy who overindulged during a picnic. Due to the tension lifting so suddenly, and her feelings of vindication, Christine can barely stop laughing as she pulls out her handkerchief and beckons to her husband.
"Bend down a little, alright?"
While a little miffed at her reaction, he still follows her request. His irritation evaporates in favor of joy as soon as she touches his face. She cleans him gently, lovingly, the way a mother, more fortunate than his own, would her perfectly formed babe. His mother had denied his cursed face these tender ministrations, but his wife, his angel, grants them freely.
"There!" She exclaims, satisfied with her handiwork. To reward him for his patience, she kisses his forehead.
Yet again, her love and mercy is nothing short of divine. Erik's soul burns with love for her as he seizes her in a tight embrace
"Thank you," he whispers hoarsely. "You should not have to do this for Erik. His poor mother never did."
Christine pats him on the back, comforting him. After holding her for a while, he finally regains his composure.
"Let's go back inside," she says, giving him another kiss on the chin.
He is all too happy to agree to that, sweeping her up in his spindly but deceptively strong arms and carrying her into the parlor. Reclining in the long leather couch, she smugly demands that he admit to his errors in judgement and he accedes, apologizing several times for his initial doubts about the ghost. She lets him kiss every grass stain that coats her fawn-colored princess-line dress, and, when satisfied with his contrition, gives him her stained hands to kiss as well. His ensuing praises and declarations of love finally persuade her to let down her already messy hair, and not long after, loosen the buttons on her skirts as well. Her energetic kisses show just how well the outside air has refreshed her. While he starts out maddened with desire for her, her voracity comes to surpass his own. However, due to her concern for tidiness and future guests, the soft, convenient couch is ultimately abandoned in favor of a more private area. He cannot complain about this, since she spends the journey upward with her arms wound around his neck and her supple legs wrapped around his waist.
He is loath to leave her side once their intimacies have concluded. He wants to continue lying there, taking in the scent of her lilac perfume, the sight of her perfect curves, the feel of her soft flesh. And from the way she smiles as she traces a finger over a jagged scar on his collarbone, she wants to stay with him too, despite all his deformities. She is so alive that when they touch, he believes he is also living. Yet, there is still the matter of his unwanted ghostly guest. After the incident in the garden, he must acknowledge its existence.
"Wait a while, love," he tells her reluctantly. His heart aches at her disappointed look, and he kisses her pouting lips to mollify her.
Mustering his self-control, he rises from their bed, dresses himself, and conducts a thorough examination through the house for any signs of activity. Satisfied that there are no intruders, spectral or otherwise, he returns to his wife and finds her up and dressed. He reassures her that there will be no more hauntings in their home, and then, to her happy surprise, he proposes to resume their music lessons.
"After all," he says, "Moving house is no reason to put off practicing your skills."
Their lesson goes well. Most of it consists of rehearsing familiar pieces, such as Ah! je ris de me voir si belle from Faust, Amour, ranime mon courage from Roméo et Juliette, Che smania, ohimè, che affanno from Otello, and Ach, ich fühl's from Die Zauberflöte. Like all other times, when they immerse themselves in music, all their problems and conflicts melt away, and they are left with their love for music and one another. It is an intimacy unlike all other, for it is a joining purely of souls.
They stop late into the evening. After she finishes her vocal cooldown, Christine sits in her husband's lap. When she first moved into this house, she was eager to see the sun, but now, she longs for Erik and the darkness he belongs to. After all, he protects her from evil spirits, and the daylight does not.
One of Erik's hands snakes up, hovering close to, but never daring to touch, her delicate white neck that serves as a casket to one of the world's most precious treasures.
"The voice of an angel," he states reverently. After an entire day without her song, he is like a starving man finally eating his fill.
Christine frowns and grabs his hand. At times, he could make her jealous of her own voice, the voice that he had found and molded and put into her. Her free hand races up to his collar, pulling him down and kissing him forcefully to remind him that he married a woman and not just her voice.
Though surprised, he returns the kiss just as passionately. When she releases him, he gawks at her with a confused grin, not sure what he has done to merit such a reward. He leans forward for another kiss, but she giggles and holds up a hand to stop him.
"Wait," she says, "answer me a question first. Do you prefer kisses or songs?"
He hesitates, thick brows furrowed in thought. From her expectant gaze and pursed lips, he knows that he risks heavy retaliation by not giving the right answer. And yet, strange questions like these rarely commanded straightforward answers. There has to be some trick involved, a third choice that lies apart from the two she presents, and his genius mind is meant to find it.
"I cannot choose," he finally replies after much consideration, hoping his words will please her. "Your song is like a kiss, and your kiss is like a song."
His compliment is so sweet, and his tone so sincere, that she almost gives in to him. Still, she persists. With a smile and a shake of her head, she tells him, "That's nice. But, Erik, you have to actually choose one."
As the haze of shock over his failure clears, he buries his face in his hands. For all his powerful intellect, he would never understand the complexities of her feminine mind. She is a divine mystery, the type that could be contemplated for a lifetime without ever coming to a resolution.
"Must I?" he whimpers.
"Yes." She leaps to her feet and, with mock gravity, states, "If you do not, then you shall no longer have access to either."
Her threat smashes into him. He feels his mind torn into halves as he realizes no matter his answer, he would lose an important part of his life. He is tempted to choose her kisses, as they are an expression of her love, but her songs are the very breath of her soul. He cannot abandon her affection, the only thing that reminds him he is a man. He cannot betray music, the only beautiful part of his ugly body and soul. He needs both of these things; he needs all of her. Why must she torment him so? Did she endure the same agony when he forced her between scorpion and grasshopper, between a life with him and freedom at the cost of death for everyone at the Opera?
"Cruel Christine!" He groans, on the verge of tears. "Your songs and your kisses, both issue from your mouth. How can I live without either?"
Perhaps, years ago, when he expected nothing but scorn from all mankind, he could have admonished her for her silliness and cared little for her reaction, for he had learned to deaden his desires. However, years of marriage and the happiness it brought him had chipped away at his vaunted self-control. Now, he cannot bear the thought of being deprived of her voice, her kisses and caresses, or any of her other lovely little gestures for any length of time.
He slams his fists, and then his hideous head, against the keys of the piano. Tossing his head back, he tears at his hair, and then digs his fingers into the decaying parchment which serves as the skin of his dead face. Anger stirs in him. How dare she mock him so, after she has made him this way? He could still refuse to play her game, and then take whatever he wants by force. She cannot deny him; she is his wife. She wants to reduce him to a mewling animal and he would show her an animal.
Her soft hands come to rest over his bony knuckles, and his anger trickles away, to be replaced by remorse. How could he return to being a monster, now that she has made him a man? She would only hate him, should he force her. Having learned true love is only given willingly, he would not reduce their relationship to fear and lies once more.
Christine bends over her husband and gently slides his hands away from his face. His upset state inspires her pity. With a soft sigh, she asks, "Is this so hard for you?"
A little whimper from the back of his throat and a slight nod is his answer in agreement. He wraps his arms about himself, futilely shielding himself from the chaos of his desires.
She tucks a lock of his hair behind his ear as she continues, "Then answer me a different question. Do you prefer songs or kisses or me?"
Erik's eyes light up within their deep sockets at this sudden reprieve. "You, of course! I want you! Even if you never sing for me or kiss me again, I would die happy-"
Before he can finish speaking, his wife silences his lips with her own. This time she does not stop him when he takes a second kiss, and then a third. He has little idea of what brought about this ordeal, or why he should be richly rewarded at its conclusion, but he will not question her mercy.
Once they both settle down, Christine's thoughts start drifting. The unfamiliar devices that litter their home are less eerie now that ghosts no longer lurk in the corners. The more she thinks about spinning toothbrushes and moving pictures, the more her curiosity is piqued.
"Can we go downstairs?" She finally asks. "I want you to show me the moving pictures again."
Erik, willing to do anything to remain in his wife's good graces, immediately agrees. They descend into the kitchen, which once again smells of cooking.
"Look." Christine hisses, clutching her husband's arm.
The rosewood dining table is set out for two. The facing seats each have a cheese omelette garnished with parsley and tomatoes on a plain white porcelain plate, along with a fork and knife. A stack of paper napkins is deposited in the center of the table, and atop of them sits a folded card.
Christine steps toward the table, but Erik halts her. He circles around the table, inspecting everything for hidden switches. Only when he finds none does he take up the card, then opens it with its back facing him. Again, he finds nothing suspicious, so he turns the card over and reads through it.
His face instantly darkens. Christine, peering over his side, sees that the paper is covered in hastily scrawled lines. The letters are legible, but crude.
"What does it say?" She asks, the familiar fear returning.
He sets the note back on the table.
"Nothing that you need to be concerned over."
"It's not dangerous?"
"No, our ghost," his voice drips with derision, "is not foolish enough to think it can threaten me, though it is a great nuisance, and one without any hint of finesse at that."
She picks up the note, squinting at the letters. She finds that she can recognize few, if any, of the words.
"What language is this?"
"English." He has his best haughty sneer as he answers. "An unpleasant language, only redeemed by the likes of Shakespeare, Hawthorne, and Poe. And perhaps the Brontës, if
you are in need of mindless entertainment."
"Well, then, can you tell me what it means?"
"I've told you not to be concerned."
"It can't hurt for me to know, can it? You said it wasn't a threat."
The more he tries to hide the contents from her, the more she insists that he divulge them. Finally, her persistence wins out, and he translates the note.
"Sir(s) and Madame(s),
Since you are currently occupying my house, I suppose I should try to act as a good host. I believe we will get along very well so long as you do not make too much trouble. There are some rules I would like you to obey. Firstly, I despise loud noises early in the morning, so please try to stay quiet until the sun is higher in the sky. Secondly, clean up after yourselves. Thirdly, I cannot think of anything for the moment, but I will contact you with these notes, and feel free to contact me after the early morning hours.
Please do not try to use the stoves. I do not fancy the idea of my house burning down. I have made your dinner tonight, and I will do so every night.
I love your music. Thank you for letting me listen. Sorry if I scared you. Then again, you're awfully easy to scare.
Sincerely,
Your host."
He looks up to find his wife grinning. For the moment, she is more entertained than scared, as not only are her claims about the ghost proven correct, but by some cosmic coincidence, Erik has been subjected to a taste of his own tricks.
"Do you find this amusing?" He himself breaks into a smile, more demented than playful, as he continues. "Yes, it is rather funny that our ghost thinks itself the owner of this house. And it wants Erik to follow its rules. It will not be so confident once it realizes it is corresponding with the former Opera Ghost!"
"But it's a very courteous ghost." She remarks. "At least, it has yet to ask for 20,000 francs."
He scoffs. "It has rendered no services deserving of 20,000 francs."
She gives him a disapproving glance and nudges him in the ribs with her elbow. He wisely stops gloating about his crimes.
"It made us dinner." As she speaks, she looks toward the omelette and realizes that it looks and smells very appetizing.
While Erik has very little interest in food, he is keen to ensure his wife's safety. He cuts off a piece of one omelette and examines its texture, odor, and taste. Satisfied that it is not poisoned, he allows his wife to take a seat and eat.
For the next half hour, Christine finds herself eating the strangest meal she has ever been served, a meal cooked by a ghost. She wonders if the ghost is as fearsome as it appeared to be, or if it truly wants to communicate. Most of all, she wonders what it will do next.
She looks up at Erik and smiles. She is not so scared, so long as he is with her. She cannot be sure of the ghost's intentions, but she can be sure that she and her husband will overcome any danger together.
Harpans Kraft (The Power of the Harp) is a popular pan-Scandinavian ballad. The protagonists are a girl named Magnihild and her fiancee Villeman, or Little Kersti and Peder for more Christianized names. Magnihild has repeated dreams that she will be drowned if she crosses a certain river, and only agrees to go on her wedding procession when Villeman promises to build three bridges. However, despite his precautions, the water spirit, the Nacken, that lives in the river still abducts her. Villeman, a great musician, takes his harp and plays so beautifully it touches the heart of the Nacken, who returns Magnihild to him.
Ah! je ris de me voir si belle is Marguerite's Jewel Aria from Gounod's Faust, in which the heroine tries on some jewels Faust leaves on her doorstep.
Amour, ranime mon courage is one of Juliet's arias from Gounod's French opera version of Romeo and Juliet, corresponding to the "Farewell. God knows when we shall meet again" soliloquy, when she drinks the sleeping potion.
Che smania, ohimè, che affanno is one of Desdemona's arias from the Rossini (not Verdi) opera version of Othello. It takes place in a scene original to the opera, where Rodrigo and Othello are set to duel, and Desdemona is worried that Othello might not survive.
Ach, ich fühl's is one of Pamina's arias from Mozart's opera Die Zauberflöte. Pamina is lamenting that her lover, Prince Tamino, no longer loves her, as he will not talk to her.
Conradin Kreutzer's Seliger Tod (Blessed Death), mentioned last chapter, is a lieder based on a poem by Ludwig Uhland. The same poem also inspired a Liszt composition of the same name. It is a poem about erotic love and compares lovemaking to death.