Even if I had known the way out of this labyrinth he called his "palace," I would not have left. There were no clocks of any kind here, so I did not know what time it was, or even whether it was day or night. Erik was long in returning, and the food still warm in my belly filled me with a delicious drowsiness I found difficult to resist. I lay my head upon the arm of the settee, and soon I was fast asleep.
I awoke to the strains of the most beautiful music I had ever heard. I recognized it to be coming from a violin, and it seemed to be resonating from the very walls. The tune was melancholic, but sweet and hopeful. I rose, and something shook from my dress. I noticed that my dress was covered in flowers. The colorful petals of roses, lavender, and violets were strewn all about me like a thick floral blanket, and their heady fragrances rose up to meet me. Blossoms of red poppy – the flower of consolation, I noted – were tucked into my hair. I smiled as I thought of Erik, and stood up to find him.
The music was strangely hypnotizing, up then down, trilling then moaning, magnetic then frightening, but always irresistible. I followed the sound through a series of corridors to a cavernous, well-appointed chamber. Erik was there, his back turned to me. He stood in the center of the room, swaying to and fro, carried by the lovely melody that floated from the instrument on his shoulder. I was about to call out to him, but I too was mesmerized by the magic of the violin.
When the last note faded, I spoke his name. He stiffened, then bent low and picked something up off the floor. It was his mask, and I was surprised I had not seen it before. He tied it around his head, and then turned to face me.
I was disappointed to be denied the sight of his face. "The music...it was breathtaking. What is it called?"
He smiled. “I have just created it. I call it ‘Paulette’.”
I blushed hotly. “Why?”
“I have not written a single note since…since long ago. The wellspring of my music has been dry these many years. I did not know that there was yet another song in me waiting to be born. Until you came along.”
A curious elation welled up in me, and it warmed me in places that felt new. Flowers, music…these were tributes offered to other women, beautiful women. This man offered them to me, and for an exhilarating moment, I allowed myself to secretly believe that I numbered among those women. I hoped he could not see the pleasure that he gave me.
He seemed to struggle with his next words, as if he was gathering the courage to say something. “I would have you stay with me, if it pleases you.”
I did not know what to say. Surely it was out of the question to stay here, in this place, with this man…was it not?
“This room…it is the finest I have. I came to consecrate it with my music, and now, it is yours, if you desire it."
My head began to swim. It was unthinkable. Grand-mère would be aghast. What would Society say about an unmarried woman staying in the house of a gentleman? And yet, I reasoned, this was no house. And that was no gentleman. And Society had snubbed us both long ago.
Unbidden thoughts came then, about what might happen between us here, in this world of permissive darkness. Thoughts of him kissing my hand again, his soft lips brushing the inside of my wrist, whispering above the surface of my neck, caressing my heated lips. Perhaps even quelling a deeper fluttering...
I jolted myself out of these romantic fancies. I firmly reminded myself that men, especially ones possessed of fine physiques such as Erik’s, do not lavish affection on one such as I. He wanted companionship, that was all. Someone to dispel the loneliness. I was to be his Persephone, nothing more.
“For a time,” I said, irritated at the catch in my breath. I had thought my reserve to be impenetrable, but his flattery was intoxicating. Sometimes I wished that I would grow old quickly, so that being old, fat, and ugly, I should finally lose all hope of having someone falling in love with me, and never again be plagued by these romantic fancies that crush me with disappointment. “We shall keep each other company for a time,” I said, acutely aware once again of that metal door slamming shut on my heart.
He nodded curtly and left me in the chamber.
The room, so lavishly furnished with romantic opulence, seemed remarkably empty now that he’d left. I looked around. It was decorated with great love and attention to the comfort of its occupant. I saw his touch in every article, from the jeweled hairbrush to the Oriental silks on the bed, all placed in reverent care of the woman for whom it was really intended.
Christine Daaé.
I could not tell when morning arrived; sunlight dared not encroach upon the Phantom’s lair. I remained abed, bathing in the syrupy languor brought on by the memory of my conversations with Erik.
My thoughts turned again to the woman he had been smitten with, the woman whose bed I now occupied. I could not fathom the nature of the kind of love that makes a man pursue even the one who hurts him. It would be akin to my loving the blacksmith who moo’d at me whenever I walked past his shop. How beautiful must this Christine have been to drive a hardened man like Erik to such extremes of longing?
I went looking for him and found him in what appeared to be a conservatory. The room had an unloved feeling, the instruments dusty with neglect. He came to the door to greet me.
“Good morning. Was the bed to your liking?” He was wearing a richly colored dressing gown and a pasha’s cap, reminiscent of his time in the Orient.
“Yes, thank you.”
“I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a breakfast for you in the other room. I trust it shall be dark enough.”
I was at once touched by the gesture and embarrassed by it. I didn’t wish to eat in a corner like an animal, but this man had shown a sensitivity to my feelings, and I chose to be grateful. Anxious to converse with Erik, I raced through my meal.
I found him back in his conservatory. He was tearing the room apart.
“Have you lost something?” I asked.
He stopped and gave me a long measuring stare. “To the contrary,” he said softly. “I think I have found something quite extraordinary.”
I wondered at his meaning as he continued. “There is much I have to collect from the world above. For one thing, I seem to have run out of parchment.” It was then I noticed the sheaf of papers tucked under his arm lined and dotted with musical notation. Just then, he overturned a heavy volume, under which lay a stack of paper. “Ah, here we are.”
“What are you doing?”
The corners of his mouth lifted. “I am committing ‘Paulette’ to paper.”
Blinking in disbelief, I took the sheets from him. Inscribed at the top, in a fine bold hand, was the title of the piece: The Resurrection. Beneath it, just above the lines of music, were the words, “Paulette’s Song.”
I smiled at the tribute. It pleased me that such a man would honor me, of all people. There were pages upon pages of music, the same unearthly music that had enraptured both of us last night. I turned the pages over delicately, letting the notes rise from the page and float around me like freed butterflies.
I turned to him, a thousand thank-you's forming on my lips. I looked incredulously at the man who stood before me. As he stood there, absorbed in the task of sharpening a feather quill with a large dagger, I felt the wall around my heart – the one I had spent a lifetime building – crack. Those tender feelings, the ones I never voiced, bubbled up inside me.
But just as I opened my mouth, I saw her.
Tacked to the wall behind him was a dusty poster of the opera he had written, and on it was depicted the image of its star, his beloved Christine. She was even more beautiful than I had imagined her, her face illuminated by an angelic beauty. Her eyes were unapproachably lovely, like a doe’s eyes, soft and full of passionate mystery. Her mouth was sensual and full, begging to be kissed. Her hair fell down her back in sensual curls. And her figure…
My feelings of delight turned cold, dampened by the thought of him laughing to himself at how easily he tricked me. I cursed myself for a fool at my ro
mantic sentiments, and bricked up the hole on my heart. “Are you in the habit of writing songs for all the ladies who come here?”
His blade stilled. The mask turned to me. “What do you mean?”
I swallowed hard. “That song. Does it by chance go by any other name? I mean, is it your custom to trap women in this place and play some hackneyed tune so they will want to stay with you?”
He stood up and advanced toward me, knife in hand. “Are you implying that my creation is some sort of sordid lure to enthrall women? Is that what you think?”
I had to know. “Is it?”
“Only two women have ever been down to these depths and lived. You very nearly weren’t one of them. As for my music, I wouldn’t denigrate my talents for such an ignoble aim. The sacrifices I have made for my music are beyond your comprehension. It is above any price, any pleasure, any thing. It sickens me that you thought less of it.”
There was no time to scream. He raised the knife in his fist and drove it down. I closed my eyes, and my heart stopped. I felt the blade whisk by my head, and embed itself on the table beside me. My eyes flew open. He had severed the quill in twain.
He snatched the sheets from my slick hands, and stormed off. The parchment crumpled in his angry fists, crushing the ethereal notes of “Paulette’s Song,” and with an angry grunt, he flung them into the fire.
I reacted on pure instinct. I threw myself on the hearth and gingerly plucked the pages from the fire. The flames devoured the paper at an alarming rate, and I tried to stamp them out against the fabric at my bosom. My hands screamed from the heat, but I had to rescue the exquisite, precious notes that were created for me.
Only me.
I felt him lifting me in his arms as I strained to pull one last sheet from the fire.
“Oh, Erik, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean what I said. I loved that piece, really I did. I just couldn’t believe you were offering such a beautiful thing to me. I was afraid you were deceiving me. All I could think of was your lady friend. Please forgive me.”
I thought he would be angry with me, but he simply smiled. His face changed when he did so – even the hard lines of his mask seemed to soften. “Oh, chérie. Do you mean to tell me that you were jealous over me?”
I blinked away my tears. Jealousy and insecurity were my lifelong torturers, though I tried never to give them voice. Again, that painful feeling of vulnerability gripped me, and I felt naked in his arms.
He plucked the charred bits of paper from my hands and let them flutter to the floor. His warm, strong hands pried open mine, still red and stinging from where the fire seared them, and placed long, gentle kisses on my fingertips.
I dare not speak the womanly sensations his tender ministrations stirred in me. Though his lips felt cool on the burning flesh of my hands, they kindled a fire somewhere else on my body. I closed my eyes, hoping he could not read the turn my mind had taken.
“You have conferred upon me a great honor, one I shall always remember. That you would reach into the fire to save my symphony from destruction…I never forget a sacrifice.”
He was so close now. My hands were imprisoned in his, and he held them against the solid wall of his chest. His shoulders loomed over my head, and the nearness of his body sparked a vague warning in me. His face was just inches from mine, and I could see him clearly now, more so than ever. The jaw, solid and square, darkened by the promise of tomorrow’s beard…dark sideburns, like black columns along his head…thick black lashes fringing the impossibly blue eyes.
Curious that I did not notice the mask.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured. His eyes regarded me intently from the shadows of the mask, and I was forced to look away. “Why?”
I pulled my hands free. “I do not know.”
“Yes, you do. When the pulse races, the breath quickens, the mind flusters…these are ways that the body conveys fear.” He lifted my downturned chin. “Or love.”
Something inside me unclenched. His eyes, those amazing blue eyes, searched mine. His voice became a whisper.
“Do you fear me?”
Though it would cost me every shred of pride, the weight of the truth was too much to bear.
Silently, I shook my head.
His chest filled with a tortured breath, his expression a mirror image of mine. Tremulously, he lowered his head, his lips thirsty for mine. His eyes became silken slits as he waited for me to finish the journey he had begun. Although a thousand uncertainties raced through my mind – familiar voices pummeling me with doubts – of one thing I was certain: I wanted this kiss more than anything I have ever wanted.
Slowly, I raised my mouth to his, half believing he would suddenly disappear and I would find myself back at Grand-mère’s cottage waking from this exotic dream. But the moment our lips touched, I felt resplendently awake. All my senses came alive in that instant, as if I had been living inside a glass globe that now lay shattered about me. This man – this strange, hypnotic, alluring man – was breathing life into me, and it rushed through every vein.
Our lips parted, and I thought I would perish for want of him. The nose of his mask brushed against my cheek, his lips feathering my jaw. The scent of his warm flesh, so musky and masculine, unleashed something primitive in me. I scrambled to rein it in.
“I’m sorry I’m not more like Christine. I’m not beautiful, or talented, or charming. I’ve none of the things you prize.”
Shame dampened his voice. “I allowed myself to be seduced by her beauty, it’s true. But such beauty cloys, like a too-sweet perfume. There was very little substance to her beyond the attractive shell, like cut roses decaying in the very instant their beauty is being contemplated. You possess something that is infinitely more valuable to me. Honesty, virtue, compassion. It took me many years of solitude to learn, but it’s finally become clear to me.” His finger stroked my cheek. “Kindness, not beauty, is a woman’s most attractive feature.”
All my life, I had yearned to hear three words: You are beautiful. Now Erik, in his own way, had expressed it to me. Something thrummed within me.
I glanced at Christine’s image in the poster. So different, so deformed, was I, that I felt sorry for Erik. He should have been given that one pleasure in his sad, neglected life. He should have been allowed the touch of her lithe, slender body. He didn’t deserve one such as I.
“You always demand the truth from me, Erik, so speak it now. Could you really come to care for someone like me?”
“Care for you?” he asked, surprised by my question. “I worship you.”
His mouth descended, and he placed the gentlest, most reverent kiss upon my lips. What sweet nectar was this? That a man could love me in spite of my flaws…could I do as much for myself?
I returned the kiss with passion.
Us
I do not think it possible to describe the enchantment of the next few weeks. Erik was a study in contrasts, possessing both the engineer’s analytical adroitness and the artist’s ability to harness and translate emotion. His superior intellect was but the least of his attributes, for he was generous and companionable, as attentive to my present comfort as he was sympathetic to my past. As time went on, our conversations lengthened and deepened, and we never tired of each other’s company. It seemed the more I shared, the more he hungered for. I was mesmerized by his power, for he could obtain anything I asked of him, and accomplish anything he set his mind to. He was like an exotic gem carved into myriad facets, and I longed to explore each one. Each day that passed, I felt more drawn to him, more infused with him, until I could barely remember a day before we met.
Erik shared the secrets of the labyrinth with me, and he showed me the entire opera house as no one else had seen it. One day, a Monday, I think, I had just come from exploring the opera house from within, using the skeleton of the foundation as Erik had taught me. I found him at the pipe organ, a huge mechanical animal that filled the underground chambers with music.
"Come to the surface, Er
ic," I suggested. "There is no one about now. We have the whole opera house to ourselves."
"Not tonight."
I was disappointed. I had remained below with him for some time, and I was growing weary of the opera house altogether. I wanted to see Paris in its full glory, by night, as Erik used to. Perhaps if I could persuade him away from this dungeon, he might shake off the irritability he had manifested of late.
"Please, Erik. Let's at least go above. I would have you sing for me again on the stage, like you did last week."
His gaze never left the keys as he muttered sardonically. "Is it spring already? Does Persephone long to escape the underworld and return to the living?"
A frown creased my brow. "What do you mean?"
His voice took on a razor-sharp edge. "I mean, that if you want to leave, you are free to do so. Go back to where you came from. I shan't stop you." He played on, oblivious to my presence.
What brought on this attack? "Have I done something wrong?" No answer. "Did I displease you?"
He was silent, but the tune he played became a bit more sinister.
"Erik!" I placed my hand on a muscled shoulder, its fabric taut with the width of him. His hand came up and roughly shoved mine away. "What's wrong with you?” I demanded.
His fists came down hard on the keyboard, choking a strangled wail from the pipes. "I am not content to worship you anymore. I want something more from you, something you have not tried to give me. I told you once that unrequited love is no love at all. I will not subject myself to that agony again. Not for anyone. Not even for you."
He must have noticed my look of bewilderment, for he went on. "Can't you see? I am suffocating with the need of you. Every day that passes my love for you grows stronger. My passion for you consumes me, until there is nothing left but this…this ache inside me. It is like a thirst that only you can quench. But you clearly do not feel as much for me.”
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