Ch 4 - Dissonance

A/N: "Dissonance" can refer to a chord that sounds incomplete until it resolves itself on a harmony, as well its more usual meaning of "discordant".

The gap in years between a child of seven and a young man of twenty is vast and insurmountable.

The same gap in years between a girl of sixteen and a young man of twenty-nine is significantly more narrow – especially when the current fashion in polite society is for young women to be married in their late teens…to men in their thirties.

It seemed to me that Christine had matured in the blink of an eye while I'd been standing still - and I hadn't noticed. Hadn't noticed, that is, until it was forcefully brought to my attention by that costume. I wished I'd never laid eyes on it; I wished I'd never seen her in it. And yet I was unable to erase the image from my mind. When had she become so beautiful?

God. I couldn't bear the thoughts that went through my head. Why couldn't she have remained a child? I had been happy while I was able to play the father. But now –

I didn't know what to do with her as a young woman. I knew what young women did when they saw me, and I couldn't bear the thought of that from her, above all others. I could dream that Christine-the-girl might accept me as her protector, that I could have a part in her life, but Christine-the-young-woman? Suddenly I had begun to want things I knew I could not have and should never have dreamed of wanting, and just as suddenly, she was completely beyond my grasp.

"Christine…"

It was a plea for forgiveness and understanding, begged from the empty air.

My mind and my body had turned traitor. I refused to leave my self-imposed exile. I knew that Antoinette was trying to have a word with me; I knew that I had been unfair to Christine. But I couldn't face them.

Eventually, Antoinette came to me – at least, as far as she would go. She knew that I could hear her from where she stood.

"Erik." Pause. "Erik! This can't continue." Another pause. Then: "Are you all right? Christine seems to think that you are mortally offended with her in some way, but if you're ill…"

I was ill. I was sick to my soul, but I could hardly tell her that.

I emerged far enough so that she could hear me, but could not see me.

"I'm here. I'm not ill," I said.

She let her breath out sharply. "Then what is all this about? If this is one of your tricks – "

"It's no trick," I said.

She sighed.

"Well. I know you don't want to hear this, but what you've started with Christine – you have a responsibility."

I was still silent, but now with annoyance. That she – that anyone – should presume to discuss with me my responsibility to Christine was laughable.

She continued. "The work you two have done – her voice has really blossomed. She could be a great talent. I know you see it. You were the first to see it. Masters do not just abandon their pupils, especially not pupils as gifted as this one."

So she could see it too. Any praise of Christine felt like praise directed at me, and I unbent a bit.

"She is very gifted," I allowed.

"If you find you are unable to continue with her lessons, you need to let her know. I doubt sincerely whether she could find a teacher anywhere who understood her voice as well as you do, but if she wishes to continue her training…"

I made an indignant noise. The idea of replacing me was not to be borne.

"Tell her the lessons will continue," I said.

"Very good." Madame Giry sounded satisfied. "And Erik – girls do grow up," she added, cryptically.

She left. I kicked at a wall. I felt like breaking things, beginning with my own head. But this would not do. Christine needed me.

And I needed her, more than I'd known. It would take me some time to come to terms with this.

We recommenced our lessons on the following day. To my vast relief, Christine was clothed in a plain, modest day dress when she arrived. Her hands were clasped, her eyes downcast. She began to renew her apologies when she heard my voice, but I cut her off.

"If I am to continue as your teacher," I said, "I must ask that you abide by my rules. I have been remiss in not informing you of them before.

"The garment you appeared in when last we met may be acceptable for the stage, but it is not appropriate for private lessons. When you come here, you should be properly dressed."

"I will not offend you again," she said.

I had thought this next part out thoroughly. I was going to be unfair for the sake of my own peace of mind.

"And Christine – you must make certain that no distractions come between you and your music. Your gift needs to be nurtured."

"Distractions?"

"Admirers such as several other of the ballet girls have. Such frivolities are not for you. You should be protected and guarded as a treasure."

Though she did not look entirely displeased at the notion of being so carefully looked after, she did look surprised. She raised her head.

"You are very strict," she observed, mildly.