Chapter Five: To the Lair

Christine, like those other people, had learned to fear shadows.

She didn't say anything to me, though; I think she was afraid of hurting my feelings. The first sign I had of her discomfort was the trembling of her hand, which I was holding to guide her through the passageways. I stopped as soon as I noticed, and cursed myself for not noticing the other small signs. The increased rate of her breathing; the coldness of her hand, which I could feel even through my gloves; her faltering step, which I had attributed to an unfamiliarity with the ground. How could I have neglected her feelings, assuming she would be as comfortable, in unknown surroundings in the dark, as I was?

I dropped her hand and touched her shoulders gently. "Christine, wait here; I will go fetch a light." A muffled sob was her only reply; I nearly cried, myself. It was my job to have thought of everything, to be prepared for this little excursion. I'd certainly acted it out enough in my head. Yet this one small oversight might cost me her love!

Assuming she loved me at all.

"Don't be afraid," I murmured softly -- crooning almost. "I'll be here all the time, just a little bit away. Nothing will hurt you, I promise."

"I'm sorry," she said at last, in a voice which people use when they are frightened but trying to sound brave. "You must think me a terrible baby; you seem so confident, in the dark as well as in the light, and I wanted to not seem so afraid, except..."

"Except you haven't had as much experience down here as I have," I told her reassuringly. She calmed slightly, as I intended; I'd had a lifetime of studying human responses, and learning ways to affect those responses. "You should learn that darkness is not your enemy, but that is not important right now. And please..." I hesitated slightly, and decided against stroking her cheek. It might be a reassuring gesture in the light, but here it would scare her more than anything else. "If you are ever uncomfortable, please do not hesitate to speak! I cannot accommodate you if I do not know what to accommodate."

I could feel her nod, jerkily. and murmuring softly I drew back, until my hands touched the smooth stone wall. I brushed my fingertips against the wall at chest height, feeling for a cavity I knew was here somewhere; I kept lanterns in the wall, for emergencies such as this, and there should be one nearby.

Something scuttled lightly over my fingers -- a spider, probably -- and then I found what I was looking for, and pulled the lantern free from the cavity. It came free with the faintest of ripping sounds, and when I took my gloves off to light it, I felt something brush my knuckles.

Sorry, my little spider friends, I thought, realizing what had happened. I did not mean to take your home away.

The lantern sprang to life, shedding a rather yellowish light on my hands -- I noticed, not for the first time, that they were thin and a little grey. I hurriedly slipped the gloves back on, and brought the lantern back to Christine. She stood, looking rather terrified, blinking in the sudden light. I held the lantern high; my free hand brushed over her cheek, barely touching it, and then took her hand again. It felt cold, even through my gloves, but it no longer shook.

I led her swiftly through the passages and down the stairways. There was not much to see, really -- just plain grey walls. The passage split often into other passages, each dark and uninviting, but I sang another lullaby -- French, this time, and one which might have been familiar to her -- and led Christine down in the only safe route to my lair.

All the passages down below the Opera House led somewhere, and I could use many of them to get to my lair. I knew the way to avoid the traps which I had set as defense. But Christine didn't, and I would never have forgiven myself if she had somehow been hurt through a misstep.

But the safe way was long, and I sensed her tiring, long before she was probably aware of it. I kept singing, and my voice didn't falter, but I watched her stumble slightly, exhausted and hungry and nowhere near as strong, endurance-wise, as I was.

She collapsed approximately 550 meters from the edge of the lake.

I was slightly startled, but not unprepared, and caught her underneath the arms as she fell. I could have picked a better position, I realized, smiling wryly. My hands were in dubious positions, as I attempted to keep her limp body upright, but even so she was slipping. Carrying her to the boat, in this position, was impossible. I shifted my grip on her, so I could hold her briefly with one arm -- I found my hand in an even more dubious location, and winced -- and brought my "free" arm, still clutching the lantern, behind her knees. I lifted her up and carried her like a child, in the process moving my other hand to a safer grip around her shoulders.

Like a child... I looked down at her delicate face, cradled against my arm. Christine really was little more than a child... she certainly weighed no more than one, and often behaved like one. Not that she was a rich spoiled brat -- though undoubtedly she had been spoiled slightly by her father. And she still believed in angels, and quite probably knights in shining armor too.

So, Christine... would your rather have your angel or your knight? They are both fine for fantasy worlds... but in a fantasy world, the knight would be virtuous, and the angel would guide the princess into glory and then stand aside for her deserved union with the brave knight. But this is no fantasy world, my dear. Your angel is not a holy messenger of God, but a dark lord who has killed more times, and in more ways, than you can possibly imagine... and your knight, I do believe, is not as shining as you might expect.

I carried her to the boat, and laid her gently inside -- at least I had thought this out, and had stocked the boat with pillows! In a way, it was too bad Christine could not see this; I think she would have appreciated the boat. I had built it myself, and the front was a carved dragon's head -- head and neck -- from which the lantern hung. It was a beautiful carving, quite graceful and lifelike I thought, and I had always thought it unfortunate that I was the only one who had the opportunity to see it.

I steered the boat smoothly across the dark lake. The surface was calm, broken only by the ripples created by the boat's passage, and I found myself once more awed by the tranquility on the surface of this, one of the innermost defenses of my lair. Beneath the lake churned a thousand machines of death...

And I laughed at the exaggerations of my poetic nature. A thousand? There were only four, including the artificially induced current which could drag an unwary swimmer beneath the depths. The dragon boat was only barely shallow enough to escape its pull. The three other defenses in the lake could overwhelm the boat, if necessary -- I did not ignore the possibility that someone would steal the boat, in an effort to enter or escape -- but I had also affixed a device to the front of the boat, which, if turned on, warned the defense mechanisms that there was a friend in the boat.

Christine's breathing remained shallow and even throughout the passage across the lake, and I had to carry her out of the boat and up the small flight of stairs. It was not a strain physically, but I felt slightly odd holding her, even in such an innocuous (and necessary) way. What would she do, if she awoke? Would she be able to guess the fantasies which had filled my dreams at night? Would she sense the desire which quivered in my muscles, the devil of temptation which tormented me with her nearness?

I would not touch her, in the fashion which my inner devil urged me to. Could not. No man was worthy of her, who succumbed to that desire!

But oh, the possibility... She is unconscious, won't know what you do to her! a little voice inside my head cried to me. Let your fantasies be fulfilled, just this once...

I laid her on the guest bed, the bed which had once been my mother's. I don't really know why I kept it, and it had been an incredible bother dragging it down to the lair. I had brought it down only on a whim; I never expected any overnight guests, and I had my own bed in the far corner. But now, I was glad I had it.

Her head rolled to one side as I released her; a smile curved her lips, but she continued to sleep. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her, and found the little inner voice again at work. Go on, take her! it whispered winningly. You know you'll never be at peace until you have her. This is the only way -- do it now!

"Never!" I sprang from the bed, hands clenched tightly at my side. The lair felt stuffy, overly hot, and I struggled to breathe. Were these thoughts coming from me? I would not have thought it possible, for I had built a stern discipline. "I will not touch her," I vowed, whispering the words into the still air. "I'm not that kind of monster."

The bed rustled behind me. "Angel?"

I spun, hiding my fists behind the billowing black cloak. Christine stirred, looking somewhat sleepy still. "Ah, good." My voice came out sounding incredibly calm; I listened, amazed, as if it were someone else who spoke. "You're awake; how do you feel?"

"A little..." She sat up, and rubbed her eye with a fist in an endearingly childlike gesture. "A little faint, I think."

"You haven't eaten in a while." Which, I added silently, you are no doubt far too aware. "I have prepared something, a Persian dish..." My heart at last settled to its normal pace, now that I was playing my role as Angel and guardian. My hands did not even shake as I guided her from the guest bedroom to the small table in the main room.

She gazed at her surroundings -- the canopied bed in the room behind her; the ornate tapestries, mostly Persian and Indian, on the walls; the small organ in a corner, which I had rigged to be quiet enough that I would not feel guilty playing it even during performances; the doors which led to other chambers; the candles, hundreds of them (121, to be precise) which flickered on the walls and floor and table.

But what, I wondered suddenly, did she actually see? No doubt the colors of the tapestries, the ornate gilded carvings on the organ, and the small (quite small) chandelier which hung from the ceiling caught her attention. But did she truly see these things? Could she make out the gold death's heads and blood-red swords among the organ's designs? Could she see the grinning skeletons which peered out from the tapestries? Or the dozens of tiny crystal knives which decorated the chandelier?

She followed the movements of my hands like a puppet. I was careful not to touch her, for as long as I was an Angel and kept my distance, the inner demons slept. I guided her to a chair, and hurried to the stove where the dish had been simmering, covered, for hours.

I lifted the cover and served it out into a bowl, which I carefully brought to the table and placed in front of Christine. She cocked her head, regarding both me and the dish at the same time. "Aren't you eating too?"

"No." Even smelling the familiar stew had not roused my appetite; I simply wasn't hungry. I preferred just to sit silently and watch her.

Christine, of course, had other ideas. She ate carefully but steadily, showing no sign of whether she liked it or not, and between bites asked me various questions; after a moment's hesitation, I decided to answer. It would be better for me to talk, than for her to stop eating and talk to fill the silence.

Why do I like music?

Ah, well -- I guess it's simply -- good grief, why does anyone like music? "It is my soul," I said at last, shrugging. "I have no better explanation. I think that all true musicians have music at the core of their beings. You see, practice alone can not make a musician of the finest caliber; talent is needed also. I--" She smiled and ducked her head slightly; her blonde hair glinted gold in the candlelight. "What is it?"

Nothing, nothing at all; just something her father used to tell her, which was very similar. Had I known her father? Or at least heard his music somewhere? He played a lot in country faires...

Was I supposed to answer this, I wondered fleetingly, as an Angel of Music, or as the human I was? "I'm afraid I never had the pleasure..." From all the stories she told of him, I almost wish I could have the opportunity, to hear him play if not to meet him. It would at least give me an idea of how exaggerated her opinion of him was, so that I could better judge his personality from her other stories. But her father, I learned some time ago, had died about two and a half years before I met her -- the fourth anniversary of his death was coming up in a few months.

She didn't think I had -- he wasn't famous, except perhaps in Sweden. (Had he truly been famous in Sweden, I wondered?) It doesn't matter, really. (A slight pause; she shifted position and took another bite.) Do I like animals?

I had to pause, to shift my train of thought from dead fathers to live animals. "Yes." With animals I had always been friendly; animals did not judge by appearances. "Very much. And they like me, too." I noticed that she was asking nothing of my family, or of my past. Did she still think me an angel, not a man? I would have thought that seeing my place of residence would satisfy her as to my humanity, such as it was...

Had I known Raoul before he became patron of the Opera House?

What a range of questions! And seemingly unconnected, from animals to the Vicomte... or perhaps not so unconnected after all. I struggled to hide a laugh. His eyes were what could be described as "puppy-dog eyes"; he certainly had the mindless obedience of a dog, at least to a pretty girl, and had about the musical ability of one. God knows why he chose to patron the Opera House. "Yes," I said, trying not to laugh as I mentally added a long, thrashing tail to the dear Vicomte's appearance, "I knew M. de Chagny a long time ago. I... worked... at a school he attended, when he was younger."

Did anyone tell me I have beautiful hands? Her lips quivered in a smile.

"I, uh..." I stared at my hands, frozen in mid-gesture. I had taken my gloves off to serve the stew, and forgot to replace them. My hands, beautiful? They were thin, and far too pale, like the rest of me. I was a creature of the night...

"I mean," she amended hastily -- perhaps there had been something in my expression which had given away my feelings, I don't know -- "the way you hold them, the way you shape the air..." She shrugged, as if helpless to explain her feelings.

...And the night holds beauty as well as the day, or have you forgotten that? Don't be a fool, Erik! You know full well the grace you carry, have always carried.

Christine had finished, by that point, and looked completely exhausted, but shook off my suggestion that she go to bed. "I'm not tired," she insisted. "Would you play for me, Angel?"

"Play?"

"Yes... that's a violin, isn't it?" She nodded to the violin case leaning against the organ. She had sharp eyes, I thought, as I nodded in acquiescence. It was a black case, hidden in shadows, and most people wouldn't have noticed it. I guess she was just attuned to musical objects better than most people.

It didn't take me long to get the instrument set up. Unlike many woodwinds, violins did not need much construction. Virtually the only thing I needed to do was to tighten the bow, which had to be stored loose to avoid strain. My fingers flicked the strings to make sure the instrument was in tune -- but of course it was. I had a good instrument, which almost never went out of tune.

She sat on the floor, arms locked around her legs, face resting on her knees. She still wore the costume from the gala, I noticed -- a light-colored pink-and-white gown. Carlotta, I knew, would have worn a darker dress, blue laced with gold, but they had decided that such a dark color would make Christine look far too pale. She's pale enough, I thought wryly, and nestled the violin against my chin.

I'd had no formal training in the instrument. When I was a child, I was often banished to the attic -- for no other crime than living, as far as I could tell -- and had discovered a few forgotten treasures, including a violin which was far too big for me at the time. I'd claimed possession of it, and proceeded to teach myself.

I also managed to teach myself quite a few bad habits. Most of those I patiently unlearned, once I knew I was doing something wrong. But no professional would stay with me long enough to teach me anything useful. At one point, my parents brought in a whole procession of teachers, who all expressed delight at my talent -- at first. But inevitably, they would be curious to see under the mask I wore. At which point a new teacher would have to be brought in. Eventually, it got to the point where they couldn't find anyone, at any price, who would come even for one lesson.

But even that didn't stop me. Violin was to me the most natural musical outlet, aside from voice. It seemed like an extension of my body. Of course, in truth it was no more so a part of my body than, say, a clarinet would be -- but that didn't change my attitude. As far as I was concerned, the violin was the best instrument.

Wherever I traveled, then, I kept an ear out for good violin music. If I liked a piece well enough, I would either buy a copy, or transcribe it from memory. Sometimes I would hear another instrument performing something -- most commonly, it would be voice -- and I would remember it and adapt it to violin.

Later, I didn't remember all of what I played for Christine. Gypsy melodies, mostly, with a few Italian, Southern French, and Austrian folk melodies. I let my fingers go where they wanted. One of the pieces was originally a duet, I think between two flutes. Most of the time, I played both lines simultaneously, except transposed slightly so it would be in a key more suitable for the violin. (Flutes, I had found, preferred flats, whereas violinists liked sharps better.) Where there was too big of a gap between the two parts, I filled in with my voice.

And then, during one song, I stopped abruptly. Christine, whose head had been drooping slightly over the past five minutes, didn't even look up at me.

Damn. The girl was falling asleep, and if I hadn't noticed would have peacefully slept on the floor. I set the violin back in its case, without even bothering to fully put it away. Those preparations could wait. I had to get her into a bed, before I had to carry her again.

"Papa," she murmured drowsily when I helped her to her feet "is it time for bed already?"

I did not want to pretend to be her father as well as her Angel, but this was not the time to argue the point. "If you wish," I said soothingly. "You sang well tonight, Christine, and I am pleased. We will have time, tomorrow, for other things."

I left the room while she changed -- fancy that, I just happened to have a nightgown which fit her, now isn't that nice? -- and came back to clear the table. When I came back to collect her dress, to clean and return to the wardrobe, I was surprised to find her not only awake, but sitting on the bed, still in her gown from the gala, watching me.

"You need to sleep, Christine," I said severely, although it was hard not to laugh. So much for not being a father! "You need to take care of your voice, if nothing else."

"Angel, there's something we need to talk about." She looked a little scared, but no longer half-asleep.

"Yes?" I'll do what you ask, I added silently, but I won't let you go home. It wouldn't be safe -- or healthy -- to go out right now. Too cold -- and what if your young Vicomte sees you with me?

"You've been very kind to me, Angel, and I appreciate that. You have an incredible voice, and I'm... honored... that you would choose to teach me." She looked down at her lap, and then looked back up at me almost apologetically. "But it's gone beyond that, hasn't it, Angel? You know I have feelings for you, and... and you have feelings for me, don't you? I don't know what kind of feelings, but I think -- hope -- that it's something approaching love. And I... I need to know. Whether to continue... loving you... or not." She twisted her hands together nervously. "I... I'm sorry, Angel, and if you tell me so I'll be quiet, and we can continue our lessons together if you want... but I need..."

"To know who I am," I finished for her, when she faltered. "To see my face, know my name, the things which are supposed to build trust." She hung her head guiltily, and said nothing. Her hands continued to twist. My lips twisted in the grim mockery of a smile. I said I'd do anything for you. Anything... but this...

Could I really show her? It had the strong possibility of destroying our relationship. My face had certainly destroyed relationships in the past. Lauren. My brother. Each Gypsy family I managed to work for. Even my mother, who by nature should be able to care for me, had hated me because of my mask. Other people's mothers make pretty things for them, dolls or sweaters or little mittens or whatever; my mother made me a mask, and very little else.

I can't show you, Christine. I couldn't bear it! You might not forgive me, but if I did show you my face, you'd never forgive me for that. It's worse than you might ever imagine. I can't, I won't do it!

But as soon as I thought that, I knew that this was something I had to do, even though I didn't want to. Could I continue to deny her this, and let the curiosity burn inside of her? She could as easily leave me over my refusal as over the truth of my face.

And she might not even leave me. She had known me, known my personality and my voice, for over a year now. The longest relationship I had ever had, before the other person in the relationship rejected me because of my face, was a month. Perhaps Christine had the power to see past my face--

A phrase from Black Rose sprang into my mind. Is there no heart so strong that it can love/That which is individual and strange? I prayed Christine would be that one, and took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to dive into a cold mountain lake. "All right," I said at last. My voice was so low that even I could barely hear it. "You wish the truth; the truth I will give you." I forced myself to meet her eyes. "Whether or not we continue our lessons, is wholly your choice." I knelt on the floor below her. "My name is Erik." That was the easier of the two truths -- not that it was a truth, really, but it would suffice. Erik -- "Prince" -- was a name I had taken for myself. "And as for my face..." My hands went to the ties, at the back of my head. My whole body was tense as I prepared to rip the mask off, exposing my face to her sight --

And I found I couldn't move at all.

Removing the mask was so simple a gesture that I often didn't think about it. I couldn't sleep with it on, of course, and many times when I was working here, guaranteed through the extensive defense systems to be alone, I found it less confining to work with the mask off. There was only one mirror in the whole lair, and the lake was dark and unreflective, so there was very little chance of my seeing my own face. It was only when I ventured up, to walk the halls of the Opera House -- or the streets of Paris, as I often did at first -- that I wore the mask.

But only twice before had I voluntarily taken it off before another person. Both times were an act of defiance, not a resignation to another's will. For a lifetime I had fought to keep the mask on in the presence of others. I could not break those instincts now.

Christine must have sensed my problem, for I felt her thin warm hands close over mine. "May I?" she whispered.

I guided her hands to the ties in back, and then to the sides of the mask to lift it off. Her movements were gentle... quite a contrast from the last time another person had removed my mask. That had been rather violent, and totally without my consent. I had left that encounter with a bruised arm and a slightly torn mask; my assaulters had left with a broken nose, wrist, jaw, and collarbone between them. I knew how to defend myself.

Hopefully, I could keep my reflexes from defending myself against Christine.

The weight of the mask released, but I felt more confined with it off. I closed my eyes, tilted my face up at her, and waited for her judgement.