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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 36/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2999
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Just a few questions, Mademoiselle Daae!
WORD GETS AROUND
They were there again.
Christine groaned inwardly at the sight of the little gaggle of journalists on the front steps of the Opera. Ever since Le Figaro’s publication of Augustine’s hysterical ramblings the press had been hanging around hoping for a comment, or, even better, an interview; Monsieur Marigny had demanded several times that they leave the premises, threatening to report them to their editors and if necessary the police, but they were undaunted, removing themselves to a cafe for a while and then returning once the irate manager no longer had his eye upon them. The announcement of Erik and Christine’s engagement had not helped; the reporters became even more eager to obtain a story, firing questions at anyone who entered the building. Getting to work was like running the gauntlet, something which confrontational souls such as Marius and Alphonse might have relished but made life extremely unpleasant for everyone else. Erik, naturally, never had to enter the theatre through the front door, and his absence soon caused the men waiting outside to sniff a story... or to smell a rat.
“Does this fiancé of yours actually exist, Mademoiselle?” one asked as Christine tried to make her way past them. “Or is it true that you really are engaged to the Opera Ghost? What does the Vicomte de Chagny have to say about this turn of events?”
“Is Monsieur Claudin in hiding because of Mademoiselle Albert’s accusations?” enquired another, pencil and notepad at the ready. “Does he have anything to say in his defence?”
“Is his face really as bad as she claims? Some are saying that he is a freak of nature; how do you feel about marrying such a man, Mademoiselle Daae?”
“No one has ever heard of this man before, and yet he is the toast of the Opera. His compositions are flying from the shelves and are heard in every drawing room. How can that be?”
“Just who is your fiancé, Mademoiselle? Where does he come from?”
“Is ‘Erik Claudin’ even his real name?”
Goaded and pushed far enough, Christine stopped and turned to face them. She gripped the edges of her shawl so tightly that for a moment she thought she might tear it in two. “Why do you not go and find something more important to write about?” she asked, her voice shrill with anxiety and desperation. “There are wars and depravation and children dying in slums; tell the world about them! All we want to do is live our lives in peace. Why can you not leave us alone?”
For a moment the gathered men were silent, but just as she thought she might have got through to them one burst out,
“Give us a comment, Mademoiselle Daae: is it true that you are marrying the new chorus master in order to advance your career?”
Furious, she rounded on the speaker. “How dare you! I don’t suppose it would occur to you that I might actually love him?”
At that they began their barrage of questions anew, all talking at once and each trying to be louder than the others. Faces, their features becoming a blur, were pushed close to hers and notebooks waved under her nose; Christine thought she might scream, backing instinctively towards the door behind her, fumbling blindly for the handle and wishing that Erik were there. They crowded around and she felt herself began to shake, panicking at the thought that she might be trapped there forever at their mercy, demands and insinuations ringing in her ears.
“Go away!” she cried. “Go away, you vultures! Leave me a - ” Her fingers found the handle and pushed down on it; a second later she yelped in surprise and all but fell backwards as the heavy door swung inwards far quicker than it should have done. A hand caught hold of her arm and pulled her over the threshold, slamming the door before the journalists could follow.
Blinking in the gloom of the foyer, dark after the bright sunlight outside without its hundreds of lamps lit, Christine was surprised to find that her rescuer was Jacques, the elderly porter who normally looked after the stage door. He shot the reporters, who were still shouting and pounding their fists against the thick wood, a look of pure contempt and spat on the floor. Christine winced, feeling sorry for the cleaners who would have to polish the marble again.
“Parasites,” the old man said. “You want to be careful, missy; use the side entrance, they ain’t been hanging around down there so much.”
Christine nodded, though she had been deliberately avoiding the Rue Scribe door in order to direct attention away from the gate that led down to the cellars and Erik’s underground realm. Though it was well-concealed, the last thing he needed was for the press to find their way into the tunnels. “Thank you, Jacques.”
The porter huffed, chewing on his ever-present tobacco. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Ain’t it your day off?”
“I left something in my dressing room. I thought the managers were trying to do something about those journalists.”
“Monsieur Marigny’s been on the telephone since first thing, but nothing’s happened yet. If I had my way I’d call out the gendarmerie and have ‘em all carted off to the cells for disturbing the peace,” Jacques declared. “A whole group of ‘em nearly overturned Mademoiselle Merriman’s cab last night. She gave as good as she got, though; clobbered three with her handbag and damn near turned the air blue. That woman knows some curses!” He dissolved into wheezing laughter and Christine found herself smiling. She could well believe that Theodora Merriman was capable of defending herself.
“I just have to fetch a libretto,” she told Jacques. “Don’t worry about seeing me out; I’ll use the other door.”
He grunted. “Where’s that fiancé of yours, girly? He should be looking after you, not leaving you to the mercy of those lowlifes.”
“Oh, he does, don’t worry.” Thanking him once more, Christine hurried across the foyer and down the passage that eventually led to the backstage areas, passing decoration which gradually changed from gilded ostentation to drab functionality; carvings and frescoes were replaced with heating conduits, gas pipes and occasional electrical wires, the plush red carpet underfoot becoming bare boards. There were no brilliant shimmering chandeliers in this netherworld, only gas lamps and tallow candles as the cast and crew went about their work in an almost perpetual twilight.
There was no performance this evening, but there was still activity, Madame Michon and her assistants mending and cleaning costumes, Pierre’s band of painters and carpenters fixing damaged sets and working on new ones for the next production. The sound of sawing and hammering was interspersed with tuneless whistling and the odd lewd comment, followed by hearty male laughter. Someone was singing, a particularly rude ditty that made Christine blush as she made her way towards her dressing room; she thought she recognised the tune but could not place it.
“Mademoiselle Daae, thank goodness!” The wardrobe mistress accosted her in the corridor, a pile of tulle tutus in her arms. “I need you to try on the maid’s costume from Il Muto; if it still fits we’ll use it again for the new piece. You’re playing a maid, yes?”
“Yes, but - ”
Madame Michon gave her no time to protest. “Good. The cap and skirt should do nicely. We can dress it up a bit with a fancy blouse. Come along; we’ll look at it now.”
“But, Madame, the opera hasn’t even started rehearsal yet!” Christine protested as she was taken by the arm and practically dragged towards the costume store. “Surely there’s plenty of time - ”
“Not when I have three new dresses to make for Mademoiselle Merriman and two suits for the new Signor. Not to mention costumes for the entire corps de ballet, which to my knowledge haven’t even been designed yet! Someone told me that the music for the ballet hasn’t been written; is that true?”
“Well, the managers asked Monsieur Reyer to compose a new piece, but I don’t think that - ”
Again Christine was interrupted. “Men!” exclaimed Madame Michon, tossing the tutus into a wicker basket and shutting the lid. “They have no idea how much work it takes to produce something worthy of the Populaire’s stage! I can’t have the Prima Donna and Primo Uomo up there in rags unless the script demands it, and three couture gowns can’t be made inside a week. My girls will be working their fingers to the bone for a month on all this!”
Realising that she would never get a word in edgewise, Christine meekly submitted to trying on her old Serafimo costume. Muttering, pins in her mouth, Madame Michon made a few adjustments to the skirt. By the time Christine was allowed to escape she had been made to stand like a dummy while the wardrobe mistress nipped and tucked an extravagant, dangerously low-cut peacock blue gown for the scene in which Adele pretended to be an actress, and listen to unending complaints about the treatment of precious costumes by certain members of the cast. It was with relief that she gathered up her bag and shawl and almost ran down the passage towards her own room.
Desperate to reach the mirror and leave the world above ground, with its frustrations and aggravations, behind, she wasn’t looking where she was going and ran straight into someone coming in the opposite direction. Winded by the collision and trying breathlessly to apologise, she looked up and found herself staring into the calculating dark eyes of Signor Rossi. For a long moment he just stared at her before stepping back and offering her a hand to right herself.
Christine frowned, wondering what he was doing wandering the corridors on a day when the theatre was dark. The principal dressing rooms were in a bigger, newly-painted passage; there was no reason for him to be hanging around in the almost forgotten area that housed her quarters. “Are you lost?” she asked. “I can show you the way back to the wings, or the stage door, if you’d like.”
He regarded her steadily for some moments, long enough for her to feel distinctly uncomfortable under his gaze, before he said in his barely-accented French, “That will not be necessary, but thank you. I am surprised to see you here, Signorina; is not the cast taking a rest today?”
“I left something behind.” Christine had to look away; the manner in which he regarded at her was making her skin crawl. “Do you usually visit the theatre when it is not open?”
Rossi shrugged. “It is much easier to get the measure of a place when it is almost empty.”
“I suppose...” She hesitated and he glanced at her, eyes narrowing. “I suppose Signora Giudicelli must have told you a lot about the Populaire.”
“I have heard many stories, yes.” A slight smile lurked around his thin lips as he turned his gaze to the ceiling, running over the ducts and cables that snaked across its surface before settling upon her face once more.. “I will be most interested to discover if they are true.”
Christine did not like that smile; there was something cold and knowing about it. Feeling chilled despite the stuffiness of the corridors, she pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. Rossi must have noticed her discomfort as the smile widened briefly before he bowed sharply and continued on his way. She watched him walk into the shadows, heels clicking on the boards with almost military precision; only when he had disappeared around the corner did she allow herself to unlock her door and slip into her dressing room.
Once inside, it was some minutes before she felt safe enough to approach the mirror.
________________________________________
She had barely set down her bag and keys upon the hall table when Erik appeared from the music room, the visible side of his face creased in concern.
“Where have you been?” he demanded as she stumbled wearily into his arms. “I was about to come up and look for you.”
Christine sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Don’t; Signor Rossi is prowling about up there. I think he’s looking for something and I don’t trust him at all.”
“Damn the man. Are we never to be left in peace?” He steered her into the library, sitting her down on the sofa, and dropped a kiss on top of her head before returning to the piano and the sheets of manuscript paper spread across it. He gathered up a handful, frowning at them for a few moments; apparently not satisfied he crushed them into a ball and aimed it towards the already overflowing waste paper basket. The ball hit the rim and bounced, glancing off one of the bookshelves and ending up at Christine’s feet.
“What’s this?” she asked, retrieving the sheets and uncurling them, smoothing them flat again on her knee. The staves were full of wild crossings out and rewritten notes, but she could follow the tune; it was a pretty, bouncing air, slow to start but gaining pace until it escalated into a blur of furious clashing chords, Erik’s frustration writ large.
“Ideas for the new ballet.” Running a hand through his hair he sank down on the piano stool. “I have a meeting with Reyer on Sunday evening; he has asked me to have supper with him.”
Christine blinked in surprise. “You’ve been invited to Monsieur Reyer’s house?”
“Is there a problem?” Erik enquired, lips pursing as he regarded her from the corner of his eye. “Do you think I will disgrace myself?”
“Not at all.” Jumping up, she ran lightly over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind. He sighed and leaned into her embrace. “You are favoured indeed; I don’t think anyone has ever seen the inside of Monsieur Reyer’s home. He must like you.”
“Well.” Erik shrugged. “I am not altogether averse to the man.”
“I’m also pleased that you are allowing yourself out into the world,” Christine added, pecking him on the cheek. “You’re doing so well.”
“I didn’t say that I had accepted the invitation.”
“But you will, because you like Monsieur Reyer and you want to work with him,” she said.
He peered up at her suspiciously. “Am I so very transparent?”
“Only to me,” she assured him, letting go and sitting down on the stool beside him. There was barely enough room for them both and her skirts bunched up so much beneath her that it was like perching on top of an overstuffed cushion. Idly she picked out a simple tune, plunking up and down the keyboard.
Erik watched her for a while, and then, unable to remain uninvolved where music was concerned, he joined her, adding chords to her impromptu melody. His long white fingers moved across the keys almost carelessly, as though he could have played such an uncomplicated tune in his sleep. Christine reflected that such was probably the case. His hands were large enough to more than span an octave, making her own look delicate, almost childish, in comparison.
“Why were you so late coming down?” he asked quietly, taking the melody from her and turning it into something quite different. As the tempo slowed her bright little song became mournful, melancholy. “An encounter with Rossi can hardly have taken up all that time.”
“I got pounced on by Madame Michon. And - ” Christine hesitated, and he turned his head towards her, his eyebrow quirking. “Those journalists are still outside.”
“Vermin.” She hadn’t thought it possible that someone could invest such disgust in a simple word, but Erik managed it. From his tone it was quite obvious what he would like to do to the men gathered outside the theatre. The piano produced a jarring, discordant sound as his hands came down hard upon the keys; he spun around to properly face her and the concern was suddenly back in his expression as he grasped her by the shoulders. “Are you all right? Did they accost you?”
“Yes, but I’m fine.” After explaining how Jacques had come to her rescue, she added, “They were asking questions.”
“Reporters usually do.”
“I mean, they were asking about you, Erik.”
“Let them.” Releasing her, he reached for his music once more.
“They’re suspicious. Because you’re never seen outside the theatre, and hardly ever within it by anyone but the cast, they think...” Christine trailed off, looking down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap.
Slowly, Erik put the folder he had just picked up aside. The next moment his forefinger was touching her gently beneath the chin, raising her eyes to meet his. “What do they think?”
“They think you don’t exist. Erik,” she said when he snorted in amusement and returned to his work. “If they don’t get some answers eventually they will create some ludicrous tale that could be worse than Augustine’s accusations. Do you want the press to start making up stories about you?”
He shrugged. “Why should I care? People have been peddling lies about me my entire life. No one has ever been interested in the truth.”
“I know.” Christine sighed, resting a hand on his arm. “But just for once, wouldn’t you like to change that? You deserve to be treated like everyone else, not as a curiosity or an animal in the zoo.”
The green quill was between his fingers, scratching across the page. Though his tone was casual enough, Christine knew that the question he asked next was anything but. “I quite agree, my dear, but what exactly are you suggesting?”
“Maybe...” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, eyes dropping to her lap once more. “You mentioned using the press to our advantage. Maybe we could tell them the truth.”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2999
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: Just a few questions, Mademoiselle Daae!
They were there again.
Christine groaned inwardly at the sight of the little gaggle of journalists on the front steps of the Opera. Ever since Le Figaro’s publication of Augustine’s hysterical ramblings the press had been hanging around hoping for a comment, or, even better, an interview; Monsieur Marigny had demanded several times that they leave the premises, threatening to report them to their editors and if necessary the police, but they were undaunted, removing themselves to a cafe for a while and then returning once the irate manager no longer had his eye upon them. The announcement of Erik and Christine’s engagement had not helped; the reporters became even more eager to obtain a story, firing questions at anyone who entered the building. Getting to work was like running the gauntlet, something which confrontational souls such as Marius and Alphonse might have relished but made life extremely unpleasant for everyone else. Erik, naturally, never had to enter the theatre through the front door, and his absence soon caused the men waiting outside to sniff a story... or to smell a rat.
“Does this fiancé of yours actually exist, Mademoiselle?” one asked as Christine tried to make her way past them. “Or is it true that you really are engaged to the Opera Ghost? What does the Vicomte de Chagny have to say about this turn of events?”
“Is Monsieur Claudin in hiding because of Mademoiselle Albert’s accusations?” enquired another, pencil and notepad at the ready. “Does he have anything to say in his defence?”
“Is his face really as bad as she claims? Some are saying that he is a freak of nature; how do you feel about marrying such a man, Mademoiselle Daae?”
“No one has ever heard of this man before, and yet he is the toast of the Opera. His compositions are flying from the shelves and are heard in every drawing room. How can that be?”
“Just who is your fiancé, Mademoiselle? Where does he come from?”
“Is ‘Erik Claudin’ even his real name?”
Goaded and pushed far enough, Christine stopped and turned to face them. She gripped the edges of her shawl so tightly that for a moment she thought she might tear it in two. “Why do you not go and find something more important to write about?” she asked, her voice shrill with anxiety and desperation. “There are wars and depravation and children dying in slums; tell the world about them! All we want to do is live our lives in peace. Why can you not leave us alone?”
For a moment the gathered men were silent, but just as she thought she might have got through to them one burst out,
“Give us a comment, Mademoiselle Daae: is it true that you are marrying the new chorus master in order to advance your career?”
Furious, she rounded on the speaker. “How dare you! I don’t suppose it would occur to you that I might actually love him?”
At that they began their barrage of questions anew, all talking at once and each trying to be louder than the others. Faces, their features becoming a blur, were pushed close to hers and notebooks waved under her nose; Christine thought she might scream, backing instinctively towards the door behind her, fumbling blindly for the handle and wishing that Erik were there. They crowded around and she felt herself began to shake, panicking at the thought that she might be trapped there forever at their mercy, demands and insinuations ringing in her ears.
“Go away!” she cried. “Go away, you vultures! Leave me a - ” Her fingers found the handle and pushed down on it; a second later she yelped in surprise and all but fell backwards as the heavy door swung inwards far quicker than it should have done. A hand caught hold of her arm and pulled her over the threshold, slamming the door before the journalists could follow.
Blinking in the gloom of the foyer, dark after the bright sunlight outside without its hundreds of lamps lit, Christine was surprised to find that her rescuer was Jacques, the elderly porter who normally looked after the stage door. He shot the reporters, who were still shouting and pounding their fists against the thick wood, a look of pure contempt and spat on the floor. Christine winced, feeling sorry for the cleaners who would have to polish the marble again.
“Parasites,” the old man said. “You want to be careful, missy; use the side entrance, they ain’t been hanging around down there so much.”
Christine nodded, though she had been deliberately avoiding the Rue Scribe door in order to direct attention away from the gate that led down to the cellars and Erik’s underground realm. Though it was well-concealed, the last thing he needed was for the press to find their way into the tunnels. “Thank you, Jacques.”
The porter huffed, chewing on his ever-present tobacco. “What’re you doing here, anyway? Ain’t it your day off?”
“I left something in my dressing room. I thought the managers were trying to do something about those journalists.”
“Monsieur Marigny’s been on the telephone since first thing, but nothing’s happened yet. If I had my way I’d call out the gendarmerie and have ‘em all carted off to the cells for disturbing the peace,” Jacques declared. “A whole group of ‘em nearly overturned Mademoiselle Merriman’s cab last night. She gave as good as she got, though; clobbered three with her handbag and damn near turned the air blue. That woman knows some curses!” He dissolved into wheezing laughter and Christine found herself smiling. She could well believe that Theodora Merriman was capable of defending herself.
“I just have to fetch a libretto,” she told Jacques. “Don’t worry about seeing me out; I’ll use the other door.”
He grunted. “Where’s that fiancé of yours, girly? He should be looking after you, not leaving you to the mercy of those lowlifes.”
“Oh, he does, don’t worry.” Thanking him once more, Christine hurried across the foyer and down the passage that eventually led to the backstage areas, passing decoration which gradually changed from gilded ostentation to drab functionality; carvings and frescoes were replaced with heating conduits, gas pipes and occasional electrical wires, the plush red carpet underfoot becoming bare boards. There were no brilliant shimmering chandeliers in this netherworld, only gas lamps and tallow candles as the cast and crew went about their work in an almost perpetual twilight.
There was no performance this evening, but there was still activity, Madame Michon and her assistants mending and cleaning costumes, Pierre’s band of painters and carpenters fixing damaged sets and working on new ones for the next production. The sound of sawing and hammering was interspersed with tuneless whistling and the odd lewd comment, followed by hearty male laughter. Someone was singing, a particularly rude ditty that made Christine blush as she made her way towards her dressing room; she thought she recognised the tune but could not place it.
“Mademoiselle Daae, thank goodness!” The wardrobe mistress accosted her in the corridor, a pile of tulle tutus in her arms. “I need you to try on the maid’s costume from Il Muto; if it still fits we’ll use it again for the new piece. You’re playing a maid, yes?”
“Yes, but - ”
Madame Michon gave her no time to protest. “Good. The cap and skirt should do nicely. We can dress it up a bit with a fancy blouse. Come along; we’ll look at it now.”
“But, Madame, the opera hasn’t even started rehearsal yet!” Christine protested as she was taken by the arm and practically dragged towards the costume store. “Surely there’s plenty of time - ”
“Not when I have three new dresses to make for Mademoiselle Merriman and two suits for the new Signor. Not to mention costumes for the entire corps de ballet, which to my knowledge haven’t even been designed yet! Someone told me that the music for the ballet hasn’t been written; is that true?”
“Well, the managers asked Monsieur Reyer to compose a new piece, but I don’t think that - ”
Again Christine was interrupted. “Men!” exclaimed Madame Michon, tossing the tutus into a wicker basket and shutting the lid. “They have no idea how much work it takes to produce something worthy of the Populaire’s stage! I can’t have the Prima Donna and Primo Uomo up there in rags unless the script demands it, and three couture gowns can’t be made inside a week. My girls will be working their fingers to the bone for a month on all this!”
Realising that she would never get a word in edgewise, Christine meekly submitted to trying on her old Serafimo costume. Muttering, pins in her mouth, Madame Michon made a few adjustments to the skirt. By the time Christine was allowed to escape she had been made to stand like a dummy while the wardrobe mistress nipped and tucked an extravagant, dangerously low-cut peacock blue gown for the scene in which Adele pretended to be an actress, and listen to unending complaints about the treatment of precious costumes by certain members of the cast. It was with relief that she gathered up her bag and shawl and almost ran down the passage towards her own room.
Desperate to reach the mirror and leave the world above ground, with its frustrations and aggravations, behind, she wasn’t looking where she was going and ran straight into someone coming in the opposite direction. Winded by the collision and trying breathlessly to apologise, she looked up and found herself staring into the calculating dark eyes of Signor Rossi. For a long moment he just stared at her before stepping back and offering her a hand to right herself.
Christine frowned, wondering what he was doing wandering the corridors on a day when the theatre was dark. The principal dressing rooms were in a bigger, newly-painted passage; there was no reason for him to be hanging around in the almost forgotten area that housed her quarters. “Are you lost?” she asked. “I can show you the way back to the wings, or the stage door, if you’d like.”
He regarded her steadily for some moments, long enough for her to feel distinctly uncomfortable under his gaze, before he said in his barely-accented French, “That will not be necessary, but thank you. I am surprised to see you here, Signorina; is not the cast taking a rest today?”
“I left something behind.” Christine had to look away; the manner in which he regarded at her was making her skin crawl. “Do you usually visit the theatre when it is not open?”
Rossi shrugged. “It is much easier to get the measure of a place when it is almost empty.”
“I suppose...” She hesitated and he glanced at her, eyes narrowing. “I suppose Signora Giudicelli must have told you a lot about the Populaire.”
“I have heard many stories, yes.” A slight smile lurked around his thin lips as he turned his gaze to the ceiling, running over the ducts and cables that snaked across its surface before settling upon her face once more.. “I will be most interested to discover if they are true.”
Christine did not like that smile; there was something cold and knowing about it. Feeling chilled despite the stuffiness of the corridors, she pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders. Rossi must have noticed her discomfort as the smile widened briefly before he bowed sharply and continued on his way. She watched him walk into the shadows, heels clicking on the boards with almost military precision; only when he had disappeared around the corner did she allow herself to unlock her door and slip into her dressing room.
Once inside, it was some minutes before she felt safe enough to approach the mirror.
________________________________________
She had barely set down her bag and keys upon the hall table when Erik appeared from the music room, the visible side of his face creased in concern.
“Where have you been?” he demanded as she stumbled wearily into his arms. “I was about to come up and look for you.”
Christine sighed, resting her head against his shoulder. “Don’t; Signor Rossi is prowling about up there. I think he’s looking for something and I don’t trust him at all.”
“Damn the man. Are we never to be left in peace?” He steered her into the library, sitting her down on the sofa, and dropped a kiss on top of her head before returning to the piano and the sheets of manuscript paper spread across it. He gathered up a handful, frowning at them for a few moments; apparently not satisfied he crushed them into a ball and aimed it towards the already overflowing waste paper basket. The ball hit the rim and bounced, glancing off one of the bookshelves and ending up at Christine’s feet.
“What’s this?” she asked, retrieving the sheets and uncurling them, smoothing them flat again on her knee. The staves were full of wild crossings out and rewritten notes, but she could follow the tune; it was a pretty, bouncing air, slow to start but gaining pace until it escalated into a blur of furious clashing chords, Erik’s frustration writ large.
“Ideas for the new ballet.” Running a hand through his hair he sank down on the piano stool. “I have a meeting with Reyer on Sunday evening; he has asked me to have supper with him.”
Christine blinked in surprise. “You’ve been invited to Monsieur Reyer’s house?”
“Is there a problem?” Erik enquired, lips pursing as he regarded her from the corner of his eye. “Do you think I will disgrace myself?”
“Not at all.” Jumping up, she ran lightly over to him and wrapped her arms around his neck from behind. He sighed and leaned into her embrace. “You are favoured indeed; I don’t think anyone has ever seen the inside of Monsieur Reyer’s home. He must like you.”
“Well.” Erik shrugged. “I am not altogether averse to the man.”
“I’m also pleased that you are allowing yourself out into the world,” Christine added, pecking him on the cheek. “You’re doing so well.”
“I didn’t say that I had accepted the invitation.”
“But you will, because you like Monsieur Reyer and you want to work with him,” she said.
He peered up at her suspiciously. “Am I so very transparent?”
“Only to me,” she assured him, letting go and sitting down on the stool beside him. There was barely enough room for them both and her skirts bunched up so much beneath her that it was like perching on top of an overstuffed cushion. Idly she picked out a simple tune, plunking up and down the keyboard.
Erik watched her for a while, and then, unable to remain uninvolved where music was concerned, he joined her, adding chords to her impromptu melody. His long white fingers moved across the keys almost carelessly, as though he could have played such an uncomplicated tune in his sleep. Christine reflected that such was probably the case. His hands were large enough to more than span an octave, making her own look delicate, almost childish, in comparison.
“Why were you so late coming down?” he asked quietly, taking the melody from her and turning it into something quite different. As the tempo slowed her bright little song became mournful, melancholy. “An encounter with Rossi can hardly have taken up all that time.”
“I got pounced on by Madame Michon. And - ” Christine hesitated, and he turned his head towards her, his eyebrow quirking. “Those journalists are still outside.”
“Vermin.” She hadn’t thought it possible that someone could invest such disgust in a simple word, but Erik managed it. From his tone it was quite obvious what he would like to do to the men gathered outside the theatre. The piano produced a jarring, discordant sound as his hands came down hard upon the keys; he spun around to properly face her and the concern was suddenly back in his expression as he grasped her by the shoulders. “Are you all right? Did they accost you?”
“Yes, but I’m fine.” After explaining how Jacques had come to her rescue, she added, “They were asking questions.”
“Reporters usually do.”
“I mean, they were asking about you, Erik.”
“Let them.” Releasing her, he reached for his music once more.
“They’re suspicious. Because you’re never seen outside the theatre, and hardly ever within it by anyone but the cast, they think...” Christine trailed off, looking down at her hands, which were clasped in her lap.
Slowly, Erik put the folder he had just picked up aside. The next moment his forefinger was touching her gently beneath the chin, raising her eyes to meet his. “What do they think?”
“They think you don’t exist. Erik,” she said when he snorted in amusement and returned to his work. “If they don’t get some answers eventually they will create some ludicrous tale that could be worse than Augustine’s accusations. Do you want the press to start making up stories about you?”
He shrugged. “Why should I care? People have been peddling lies about me my entire life. No one has ever been interested in the truth.”
“I know.” Christine sighed, resting a hand on his arm. “But just for once, wouldn’t you like to change that? You deserve to be treated like everyone else, not as a curiosity or an animal in the zoo.”
The green quill was between his fingers, scratching across the page. Though his tone was casual enough, Christine knew that the question he asked next was anything but. “I quite agree, my dear, but what exactly are you suggesting?”
“Maybe...” She twirled a lock of hair around her finger, eyes dropping to her lap once more. “You mentioned using the press to our advantage. Maybe we could tell them the truth.”
