Chapter 9

August in the Marchesi household ended in an uneasy, stifling stalemate between Christine and her hostess. The bloody heat didn't help. Papa and Giovanni withered under the embrace of choking humidity, their lungs rattling despite Erik's tonics. And when Christine and Luciana did speak, she heard that uncomfortable sharpness in the other girl's tone, the spite in her gaze. Erik, for his part, was caught between the dual obligations of the nearly-finished project and his duties as translator, teacher, physician and host, which did little to improve his mood. Altogether they made a miserable picture.

While she knew there was some truth to Christine's fault from that horrid party, in her own mind she thought perhaps Luciana had urged her to drink more on purpose. At least Erik agreed with me, Christine thought with a grim sort of pleasure. The near-choking tension between Erik and Luciana baffled her. Erik had lived in this house for years, and the two of them squabbled constantly. Tonight at dinner, they hadn't even glanced at each other. Uncomfortable with confrontation as she was, Christine guiltily longed for the day Luciana would return to her convent school. One fact was unavoidable: Christine knew she had failed. God knew how long Giovanni would tolerate one who so irked his precious daughter.

The rooftop garden offered cool solace.

"Are you up here, älskling?" her father's voice was thin, tired.

"I'm here, Papa," she said, swiping the hot tears that had leaked from her eyes. His stooped form appeared from behind the potted plants. God, when had he become so thin? Despite the rich Italian fare, his shirts lay limp across broad shoulders. He eased onto the hot stone bench next to her, winded from the climb, and pulled his handkerchief from his pocket to dab the perspiration from his face.

"When are we to leave?" she said, unable to bear a moment more of his silence. The white linen of this handkerchief hovering over his mouth, she could only see his raised eyebrows.

"What nonsense are you saying?" he asked.

"Giovanni wants us to leave, doesn't he?" she said. Papa's eyebrows rose to his hairline.

"Leave? He hasn't said a word of such a thing. You mustn't worry, Christine," Papa said, laying is callused palm over her hand. Christine took solace in the comforting touch, even as a dew of sweat sprang up between their hands.

"But Luciana has treated me so coldly, surely Giovanni wouldn't allow-" Christine's words were cut off by a coughing fit, a deep hacking cough rattling within his barrel chest. She twisted her hand from beneath Papa's, squeezing his thick, spongy fingertips in mute reassurance. He fumbled for his handkerchief and amongst the thick globule of phlegm she saw flecks of red blood. His frailty was, as always, a knife to her heart.

"Oh Papa," she said, "has your cough worsened? Perhaps Erik-"

"No, no," Papa said, sucking in a deep breath, hand fluttering in a weak dismissive gesture.

"The tonics are of no use, älskling. I'd rather not drink anymore foul brews when it does nothing to ease the cough," he said.

"You said they worked!" Christine said, lapsing into Swedish, her tone caught somewhere between accusing and terrified. Papa's smile was a wan one.

"They did, until a week past. With this heat it has been no better. I'll be all right, darling. I just need rest," he said in the same tongue.

"Let me help you," she said, drawing his arm across her shoulders. The stairs proved difficult, too narrow to allow them to walk abreast. Christine was left to awkwardly hobble after him, hands cupped beneath his armpits. Within Giovanni's house, their room was stifling. Breath seemed to catch in her throat, sweat trickling in ticklish trails down the back of her neck. Dying sunlight poured in from the window, dust motes dancing in the beams.

"God, this heat will be the death of me," Papa said, in a weak attempt at humor. Christine bit back a sharp word. How could he even hint at such a thing? An emptiness settled in her belly at the thought.

"Lie down," she said, shoving her hair off her forehead.

Christine bustled about the room, cracking open the window to allow in any fugitive breeze, drawing the curtains to block most of the light, filling the basin with cool water. She settled on the edge of the pallet beside Papa, mopping his face with a dampened cloth. Papa uttered a half-pained groan of contentment. Even after the brief exertion of returning to the room, his breath came in harsh pants. He grasped her wrist, dark eyes suddenly imploring.

"You're happy though, Christine? I've been a good father to you, right?" he asked. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes.

"Of course, Papa. I love you," she said, voice thick with emotion, "but you don't need to worry about such things. You'll be just fine." They were words as much for herself as for him. He had to be.

"Rest now, Papa. I'll wake you before supper," she said, kissing his sweat-damp forehead.

"I love you, Christine," he said, kissing her cheek.

"I love you too, Papa. Sleep. You'll feel better," she said. Christine slipped out of the room and leaned against the closed door, letting the tears fall.

XXX

Erik heaved a sigh of relief as he stepped off the brougham. The heat had slackened as the sun set and ended the work week; and—at last! —there was progress at the site. In fact, the project was nearly completed; he'd dismissed all but two of the senior carvers. It would be a relief sweeter than any cool night that he would not have to deal with Calandrino and his minions. At Giovanni's home, he had yet to see any evidence of armistice between Luciana and Christine. Thank God the summer term was at its end. The selfish part of his mind reminded him that he would then have Christine all to himself.

He completed his ablutions with pleasure, and scaled the stair to Giovanni's study to share the good news.

"Sir?" he said, knocking lightly. Giovanni looked up from the ledger and his weathered face broke into a smile. The expression never failed to light a warm feeling in Erik's chest.

"Yes, come in Erik. Come rescue me from blurred lines of figures," he said, scratching a quick note in margin as Erik took his seat.

"The majority of work on the Valestro project is complete, Sir. All that's left is a few auxiliary carvings. I left Alex and Oscar Esposito to finish the balustrade along the balcony."

"Excellent. I'm sure Signore Valestro will be very pleased we finished ahead of schedule," Giovanni said.

"Hmph. By some grace, certainly," Erik said, rising from his chair.

The stimulation of thorny problems always left him jittery. He poured wine for the two of them and paced the length of the room. By tacit agreement, they avoided talking about Luciana and her flights of fancy. Pretending interest in the mundane river scene on Giovanni's wall, he said, "Our guests have mentioned a desire to see the site. Perhaps now that it is complete, we might arrange a tour."

"Of course." There was a certain dryness in his tone that made Erik turn. Giovanni's lips curled in a sly smile.

"What is it?" Erik said, more sharply than he intended.

"Don't think I haven't noticed your sudden interest in hospitality. Or the roses missing from the garden. If I didn't know any better, I'd say you were smitten."

Words flew to his lips, sharp, dismissive words. Inwardly, Erik bristled. But a secret part of himself longed to confide in the older man, to share the novelty of being smitten. After a beat, he mustered a reply.

"Monsieur Daae isn't my type," Erik said, swirling his wine in his glass. Giovanni laughed.

"I should say so. I meant, of course, Miss Daae and her perfect voice." Amid the rush of embarrassment and chagrin at Giovanni's gentle brand of teasing, Erik also felt a fugitive pleasure. It was a delight to talk of her, his beautiful demoness.

"Yes. Her voice is a thing that would make angels weep."

"As is yours, Erik. Have you sung for her? A romantic serenade would surely win her heart." Despite the jocular tone, Erik considered the idea. Perhaps she would like his voice, his one beauty.

"Ah yes. I can see it now. A soft song under in the moonlight within Signore Valestro's atrium. She will surely swoon," Giovanni said. Erik swallowed a meditative sip.

He viewed all of life's pleasures as fleeting, a brief reprieve from the world's harsh treatment of him thus far. Hidden under Giovanni's roof, he'd childishly mused suffering could not find him here. Luciana was a nuisance at worst, and Giovanni's own daughter. She deserved his tolerance, if not respect, on that tie alone. Christine proved to be his own sort of torment, a potential well of anguish. And yet he was drawn to her like the proverbial moth to the flame, consumed by agony and blessing every moment of it. There would be pain, oh yes, but he would savor the sweetness before it arrived.

"Miss Daae is very shy, such focused attention before an audience might only embarrass her."

"Shy or no Erik, I've never known a woman to dislike a romantic gesture," Giovanni said, in all earnestness.

"Thank you, Sir. I will think about it," he said, draining his wine glass. The raw physical exertion of the day had not diminished his restless energy. Despite the pleasure of Giovanni's undivided attention, Erik craved a swifter pace.

"I will bid you goodnight, Sir." Giovanni's voice stopped him at the threshold.

"Erik . . . have a care with the girl." His soft tone and pointed words struck deep. The half-tame monster beneath his roof had better not harm the sweet princess. Any censure, no matter how gentle, always found Erik's very core. Chastened, Erik held Giovanni's gaze.

"Sir, you must know I would never hurt her."

"I was talking about you, my boy," he said.

Giovanni's words followed him down the stair and into the courtyard, lit in silhouette by the setting sun. Heat radiated from the stones beneath his feet, but there was the beginning of freshness in the breeze. Perhaps it would rain soon. Enjoying the silence, Erik considered the beckoning of the spinet, or the lure of his cellar room. A soft catch of breath caught his attention. God, he would never grow accustomed to that particular rush when he saw her unexpectedly, a soul-deep surge of joy and anxiety.

"Mademoiselle," he said, inwardly frustrated by the sudden huskiness of his tone. As she stepped nearer, he knew something was wrong. The deepening shadow obscured the details of her face, but there was a certain hesitancy in her posture.
"Mademoiselle?" he said, imbuing his voice was layers of concern and sympathy. If Luciana had said something, he swore she'd pay.

"Excuse me, Erik. I . . . I just wanted some air on the rooftop." Her voice was hoarse, and he saw her hands flutter, twisting the ring around her little finger. She sidled toward the stair leading to the garden and Erik was deeply torn. She had so kindly comforted him in his moment of pain, he longed to do so for her, but was woefully ill-equipped.

"Is . . . are you well?" he asked. How inane and useless he sounded!

"Oh yes, I'm fine," she lied.

"Made—Christine," he said, allowing himself the rare pleasure of saying her name. He felt rather than saw her gaze, intent and dizzying.

"Please. Maybe it would help to talk about it." Christine uttered a breathless laugh.

"I'm sure you're right. It's just . . . I don't know if I could bear to say the words aloud." Erik shifted, several possible replies flying to his lips.

"If you prefer not to dwell on the unpleasantness, would you like a distraction?" he said. That coaxed out a small twitch of a smile. When had he sidled so close to her? The dying light highlighted the ridge of her eyebrow, the slope of her nose, the apple of her cheek. So lovely.

"A distraction?" she repeated.

"Music, of course. Would you care to sing with me?" he said, his mouth suddenly dry. Christine chewed on her lower lip as she considered it, a gesture he found both charming and sensual at the same time.

"I would like that," she said. Together they climbed the stair to the rooftop garden.

XXX

Her heart would surely burst from her chest. Erik wanted to sing with her! Despite his passionate assurances to the contrary, he always seemed deeply uncomfortable when Giovanni plied her and Papa for a demonstration. With the hypnotic lilt of his speaking voice, she felt she would faint if she heard him sing. Any grim thought about Papa or Luciana flew straight away at Erik's quiet—almost shy—request.

Christine settled on the bench, twisting her mother's ring around her little finger. The cool breeze toyed with her hair. She had always loved this time of day, when the world seemed flat and quiet, settling into the night's peace. Erik's figure cut an imposing shadow in the twilight, tall and unbending. His eyes glittered from the slits in the mask.

"What would you like to sing?" he asked softly. Her heart swelled with tenderness. He was so kind to seek to comfort her.

"Your choice, but please something in French. I couldn't bear to butcher a lovely Italian aria," she replied. Erik chuckled.

"I doubt that. Your proficiency continues to improve," he said. Christine inwardly glowed at the compliment. This ease between them was heady. Erik folded his arms, leaning against the railing as the wind teased and tugged at his clothes and hair.

"Robert le Diable? A rather powerful suggestion, but Meyebeer's composition is stunning," he said. Christine flushed.

"Forgive me, Erik. I haven't heard that one." Why had she let him choose the song? It would only serve to highlight how young and ignorant she was; facts she was certain Erik didn't need to be reminded of. Erik frowned.

"Faust, then? Your Margarita is lovely."

"Very well," she said, heaving a sigh of relief. She knew those words in her marrow, and as such had less chance of her embarrassing herself in front of him.

Erik gave her a sharp nod, nostrils flaring as he took in a deep breath. As his lips parted on the opening phrase, every fine hair on her body rose. Christine flinched, assaulted by the dark glory of his voice. The words on his lips were fire, beauty incarnate! Her hands fisted in the folds of her dress as heat began to swell and throb inside her. All else fell away as he sang, his magnificent voice the only thing in her world. Holy Virgin help her, Christine was swept up, a fragile leaf flung into a rushing gale of sound, torn asunder by each piercing note. She nearly cried out when he stopped. After hearing such a voice, silence felt like death.

"Christine? Are you all right?" His speaking voice was almost as unbearable. Within it, she heard the vestiges of ecstasy. She sucked in a deep breath, dashing a film of tears from her eyes.

"Yes, yes," she whispered, "I'm fine." Passionately grateful the settling dark hid her gaze, she looked at him with huge, worshipful eyes. His complex heart, his prickly exterior and dear God, his voice . . . deep in her soul Christine knew she loved him.

"Thank you. Thank you for singing for me, Erik." The silhouette of his shoulders gave a tight shrug.

"You are most welcome. I hope the song eased some of your burden," he said.

Christine rose, caught between two powerful, opposing emotions. A great part of her wanted to rush into his arms, no matter her welcome and show him how his voice had affected her. It stirred her to hunger, to a nameless passion that shook her bones. Another equally passionate part of her reminded her of how small, uncouth and inadequate she was next to such a talent. That snarking part of her conscious won out and Christine muttered something about how tired she was after the exertions of the day. She retreated to the shallow comfort of her room and Papa's stolid presence. The familiar was comforting and plain balm after the near-religious joy she felt upon hearing Erik's voice. It chased her in her dreams, however. She wondered in stillness of the night, if he had always been there, singing songs in her head.

XXX

His voice pierced the stone layers separating them and Luciana rose upright in her bed, clutching her heaving bosom. It was the sweetest pain, his voice. She had heard only snatches of phrase, a handful of notes in her memory. Even the life he breathed into music could not compare to his sinful angel's voice. She swiped a hand through her sweat-damp hair. The throbbing pleasure Erik's voice wrought died at a sudden vicious thought. He hadn't sung for Luciana, but for her. Jealousy seized her, bent her double around the sick truth of it. The fainting violet, the shy twit, the mealy-mouthed cunt. God, Luciana had never hated as she hated Christine.

A variety of punishments occurred to Luciana, each more satisfying than the last. Shearing her head bald while she slept, pouring hot oil in her shoes, removing her fingernails one by one . . . the cramping in belly subsided in her imaginings. None were quite good enough. No, they would only earn Papa's disgust and Erik's wrath. Luciana knew she had to be clever and quiet. The coach back to that awful school would be a help. She had time to plan and vet her accomplice. Let the doe-eyed idiot dream sweetly. Let Erik moon over her. Now let it be war on them both!

A/N: Thank you for waiting so patiently for this next chapter! Enjoy!