One
The young woman sat still, head bent over her embroidery, breathing slowly as she frowned, focused on her work. In her face was a look of knowledge that did not match up to her seemingly-few years; she looked as though she'd seen too much already, though she was surely not more than nineteen.
She concentrated.
She was a bit too vigorous in her actions, and pricked her finger. With a gasp she threw down the piecework and stared at the point of blood welling up; she seemed almost in shock.
Was it not bad luck to prick your finger whilst making your wedding dress ?
With a quick shake of her head she disposed of this backwards thinking, though not of the cold chills that ran down her spine. She searched for a handkerchief but was unable to locate one. She remembered she had given hers to Raoul, the night before. A token. A silly gesture, as he knew quite well she loved him; he ought to know, after all she'd done for him
The entrance of the housekeeper disrupted her reverie. Looking up, she ventured a smile, but Madame le Piere ignored her as usual and simply dropped the evening's newspaper onto the table at her elbow, then left, shutting the door firmly behind her. The sewer cast a glance towards her discarded work then chose to ignore it, taking a deep breath, grasping the papers with one hand in order to wipe the blood off her finger.
It made an unsightly red smear. The girl stared at it and attempted to swallow the lump that rose in her throat. The redness added color to the print, the words of a small headline
The word it turned scarlet was "Erik."
The words after it...
Christine dropped the paper and ran.
She did not find much comfort in her intended. Raoul received her with the grave smile he kept for her, his long hair swinging loose around his face, released from its bounds. She could not manage, somehow, to tell him what was the matter.
"I don't understand," he said, reaching for her. She pulled away. "Christine, has something happened? What is the matter?"
She hid her hand behind her back and struggled to keep her voice under control. "Did you not read the evening papers?"
"Yes, I did, at that. What of it?"
"Did you see nothing of interest?" she cried, unwilling to believe that he had not noticed this matter which seemed all-important to her.
He frowned. "I saw nothing that would disturb you thus. Admittedly I did not give it an extensive reading I was distracted, you see, by the arrival of my father"
Christine sobbed. She turned from him and walked quickly from the room, leaving his house immediately. Raoul stared after her, totally at a loss; with a feeling of foreboding he moved to the table and picked up the evenings paper.
This time, the words caught his eye immediately.
"Erik Is Dead."
It was quite late at night, and when Nadir opened the door he was astonished to find the young woman he knew as Christine Daae. He stood there for some seconds in his nightcap, open-mouthed.
"Oh, thank God I have found you!" she cried. "I have found you at last! Please forgive me, sir, I am sorry to disturb you at this late hour. But I I saw the papers and I-- I must know the truth, sir, I must!"
A few minutes later saw her seated in the Persians library, a blanket wrapped around her thin shoulders, a mug of steaming tea in her hand. She sipped it and the wry face she made caused him to chuckle.
"Tea with lemon," she said. "Did he teach you to make it?"
"He did," said Nadir formally. "Please, Miss Daae--- or is it Miss Daae?"
His gentle question caused Christine to tremble.
"It is," she said fiercely. "And it will be for a fortnight yet. Do not attempt to alter the subject. I must know the truth."
He watched the movements of her tiny hands as they gripped the cup.
"Ask me, then, what you have come to ask," he said, his accent falling strange, yet comforting, on her ears. Christine closed her eyes tightly and tried, unsuccessfully, to stop trembling.
"They say he is dead," she said, bit her lip and shook her head. "They say he is dead."
The Persian waited for her to open her eyes once more. Then he bent towards her and said, softly, "What they say is true, Miss Daae."
Christine gave a cry like a wounded animal.
"It cannot be!"
"It is."
"I will not-- I refuse to believe you!"
"Miss Daae, you must," said Nadir with a harder edge to his voice. "I attended his death myself, and oversaw the disposal of his body. Erik-- your Erik-- is as dead as ever anyone was. He is no longer."
She sighed out a sob, and stood, handing him the cup. For a moment she was utterly still, then swallowed hard and stood up straight. "I thank you for your kind indulgence," she said. "Please tell me how he went."
The Persian was at a loss for words at her sudden about-face. Finally he said, "Peacefully," although this was not altogether true.
Christine nodded and very quickly said her farewell, leaving the house at once. Nadir watched her go off into the night, a frown of worry creasing his face. If she chose not to believe--
If she decided to find out for herself--
In fact Christine was reasoning things out in her mind at that moment, and very soon she had determined on a course of action. She did not believe Erik to be dead; it then followed that he must be alive and if alive, he would be in the one place he felt safe, the one place he felt he belonged.
She would go there and find him.
It took her some twenty minutes to walk to the abandoned hulk of the Opera Populaire, as she could not succeed in getting a carriage. No one would pick her up, she reasoned, it was to be expected; undoubtedly she looked like a prostitute, a lady of the night. Singularly appropriate, considering whom she was going to find.
The Opera Populaire, having been devastated by a fire, had transferred owners two or three times since the time Christine worked there. It was now empty, desolate, a shell of its former self-- much like me, Christine thought bitterly. Oh Erik, Erik, we have much more in common than you ever thought possible-- how dreary life is since I left you! How precious to me is the fortnight I have left with my freedom, with my own name!
She could have gone back to him
No.
No, she could not have. It would have not been the same, Erik would still think of how she left him every time he looked at her, would be afraid of her leaving again. And it did not matter how many times she assured him that she would stay, he would always be afraid.
No, the only possible way she could have gone back
Was like this.
To find his grave and weep over it.
No.
She would not believe that he was dead. She must not.
She entered the opera house and made her way towards the basement. The stairways were dusty and creaked as she walked on them, making her exceedingly nervous. Other than the sounds she made, and the sound of her heartbeat, there was absolute silence-- a silence that spoke of dead things, a silence of unnatural proportions and origins. She began to fear.
She walked on, on and down.
She had forgotten that he lived so far below the surface, so far below the sun.
She arrived at last in the labyrinth catacombs that Erik had called home. The boat was gone; she had hardly expected it to be there after all this time; she teetered on the edge of the vast underground lake, but there was no thought of turning back after she'd come all this way. So she steeled herself and entered the water.
It was cold, bone-chillingly cold. Goosebumps emerged at once all over her body, and she shivered and clutched her arms about her as she waded through the water.
It took her some time to achieve the shore that had housed Erik. All was not the same it had been ravaged, as if by some wild beast. She shivered as she stared at it-- had Erik done it himself? Had he been driven to this by his grief after she left?
She emerged from the water and stepped onto the shore. There, looking at the destruction around her, she began to cry.
It was then, when she thought herself more utterly alone than ever, that there was a stirring in the shadows behind her.
Christine turned with a gasp, eyes frantically searching the shadows. What was that sound she heard surely no more than a rat, she tried to reason with herself. There was no possible way
Yes.
Yes, there was.
She cried aloud, "Erik!"
Only silence answered her. Struck by it, she began to sob as she called his name over and over again
"Erik! Erik!"
She cried herself out, tears running in rivers down her face, until she was curled on the floor in a fetal position, rocking back and forth in the damp dust, sobbing uncontrollably.
"Erik--"
At last she managed to stop herself crying, taking long, shaky, shuddering breaths and struggling to her feet. This place was empty, as though never seen or touched by humans, the air never breathed through warm lips she clutched her arms to her chest and stared out at the water.
A hand grasped her by the shoulder.