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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 42/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3201
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: The house by the lake is empty and Christine is frantic...
HUNTING HIGH AND LOW
“Good morning, Erik! Bruno, I hope you’ve been a good boy and not been annoying Papa; you know he doesn’t like it.”
He wouldn’t like being referred to as ‘Papa’ either, Christine thought with a smile as she shut the front door behind her and picked up the basket she’d rested on the hall table. Inside was another bone for the spaniel, a pair of clippers she’d bought in a shop recommended by Alphonse Renard to tidy up Bruno’s coat and a bottle of wine with which she hoped to placate Erik. He’d become increasingly twitchy over Bruno’s continued presence in his home since the impromptu manifestation of the ‘Phantom’ at Friday’s rehearsal, so much so that the following day he’d actually paid one of the runners to take the little dog out for a walk until the practise session was over. When they returned after several hours poor Jean-Paul looked exhausted but Bruno was in high spirits, tail wagging madly. She hoped that Erik wouldn’t insist on the same charade this morning, and was ready to do battle with him over shutting Bruno out by the lake while she had her lesson; she couldn’t concentrate for worrying that he might fall in and drown, a sentiment at which Erik had rolled his eyes and reminded her that dogs were in fact strong swimmers. That was all very well, Christine had countered, but what if he hadn’t been taught?
The underground house was strangely quiet. Although it was still early Erik would usually be in the music room waiting for her, a cup of tea or coffee, the only breakfast he allowed himself, at his elbow. It was very odd not to hear snatches of whatever composition had taken his fancy at that particular moment winding their way down the hall and out into the cavern beyond. To be greeted by complete and utter silence was worrying, and as Christine ventured further down the passage she realised that the gas lamps were turned down low, as they usually were at night; he never let the house descend completely into darkness in case she ever had a reason to arrive at an unsociable hour.
“Hello?” she called, abandoning the basket and walking cautiously towards the library. There was no light under the door and when she ventured inside she found that the room was empty; turning up one of the lamps it was obvious from the neat aspect with which she was presented that he had not been there for some hours. The libretto for Die Fledermaus was closed on the piano and the book he had been reading sat on the arm of his wing chair, a ribbon marker halfway through. Shutting the door again Christine made her way instead to his bedroom across the hall. “Erik? Erik, are you there?”
There was no answer. The bedroom was equally dark and devoid of life. It did not take long to determine that the bed had not been slept in; the covers were pulled so straight that they appeared to have been guided by a ruler and his slippers stood side by side on the rug. She knew that this was not unusual - Erik often spent all night working and grabbed what little sleep he needed slumped over piano or organ – but there was no sign of him anywhere and worry began to nag at her stomach, flipping it over. Running back into the hall she checked the table by the door for his keys and the coat stand for his hat; both were missing. Of course, he had to go above sometimes in order to buy food and any other necessities, and doubtless Bruno would have been whining to be taken out, but she had never known him not to be present when he was expecting her for a lesson. He had never missed one of her lessons. Only something truly dreadful happening would keep him away...
Terrified now, shawl trailing unnoticed on the floor, Christine all but flew from the house, slamming the front door behind her.
She had to find him.
________________________________________
By the time she reached the upper levels of the theatre she was frantic.
There door to Erik’s office was locked, none of the crew members she hunted out had seen him and Madame Giry, the one person who might know where he was, had apparently vanished too. According to Ilya, the Russian principal dancer, the ballet mistress had not turned up for work, instead sending a message to the management via Meg. Christine was in a greater panic than she could ever recall as she searched room after room for her friend; Meg seemed to be doing a wonderful job of hiding, too. Hoisting her skirts high so that she would not trip on them and not caring that everyone could see her ankles, she ran down the narrow passages of the backstage warren, apologising to anyone she knocked over or accidentally trod upon. Christophe Fortier did not seem bothered when she stumbled and fell against him, and it was she could do to extricate herself from his overly protective grip as he set her back on her feet; he looked put out as she wrenched herself away with breathless thanks, calling after her,
“Hey! Where’s the fire?”
Christine careered around the corner, desperate now to find someone who might know her fiancé’s whereabouts, and bumped straight into a gaggle of ballet rats coming in the opposite direction. They all squealed and flapped like a flock of pigeons and Christine found herself apologising once again, struggling to right herself when no one so much as offered a hand. Ever since her engagement to Erik became common knowledge most of them had been hostile towards her, as though they thought she was getting above herself. She had, after all, once been one of them, and they clearly resented her good fortune.
“Have any of you seen Meg this morning?” she asked, and was greeted with a circle of barely disguised glares.
“Should we have done?” one of them, a new recruit whose name Christine couldn’t remember, asked.
“I thought you might have; she is - ”
“We have more important things to concern us,” Dorothée told her rudely, jerking a thumb behind her, and Christine could see in their midst a very unhappy-looking Hortense, her make-up running in streaks down her face and a soggy, twisted handkerchief in her hands. The dark-haired ballerina was being comforted by Giselle, who had her arm around Hortense’s shoulders and a sympathetic expression on her face.
“Never mind,” she was saying, “There are plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“A bâtard like that who stands you up isn’t worth crying over,” Dorothée added, ignoring Christine’s continued presence and tossing her hair over her shoulder.
“I trusted him!” Hortense exclaimed. “He was so nice on Friday, he asked me all about myself, bought me drinks, made me feel like a princess. I agreed to meet him again last night; I waited for hours at the entrance to the fair but he never came!”
The other two made noises of commiseration. “Men are rats, Hortense,” said Dorothée. “Worse, they’re fleas on rats. No, they’re whatever is small and disgusting that lives on fleas on rats. You can’t believe a word they say.”
Hortense nodded miserably. “I know. But I liked him so much!” she wailed, breaking down in noisy tears. “All the showmen were watching me and laughing. One of them even propositioned me! I’ve never felt so humiliated!”
“I’m sorry,” Christine said as the ballerinas gathered around their sobbing friend, offering fresh handkerchiefs and platitudes, “but I really do need to find Meg. Have any of you - ”
“Christine!” At the sound of her name she spun around to see Meg herself hurrying down the corridor. Incredibly, Little Giry was still in her street clothes, clutching her bag and shawl, a tiny straw hat pinned clumsily to her curls. Despite herself Christine couldn’t help but stare: for Meg not to be ready for practise so close to rehearsal was unheard of. Gasping for breath after her dash, Meg caught hold of Christine by the elbow, drawing her aside. “Oh, thank goodness I’ve found you! I’ve been looking everywhere; your landlady said you left hours ago!”
“I had a lesson with Erik before rehearsal,” Christine replied, her stomach seeming to drop a foot in the face of her friend’s consternation. “Meg, have you seen him? The house is empty and his bed hasn’t been slept in - ”
Meg’s usually sunny face became grim, and she steered Christine away from the flapping ears of the other ballet rats. “Come with me. I have something to tell you...”
________________________________________
“Attacked? How can he have been attacked?”
“I don’t know. The message came for Maman before we got up; she went to answer the door and the next thing I knew she was flying back down the hall and throwing on her clothes as fast as she could,” Meg said. “She told me to find you and bring you to Mademoiselle Merriman’s house in the Rue Saint Denis.”
Christine’s anxiety was now mixed with complete bewilderment. “Mademoiselle Merriman? What has she to do with this?”
Again Meg admitted that she had no idea. “We should hurry; I’ve already spoken to Monsieur Reyer and given Maman’s note to the managers so we won’t be missed. I think... I think he’s in a bad way, Christine.”
“Oh, my poor Erik.” Christine covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold back the tears that sprang into her eyes at the thought of him lying hurt. Meg took her other hand, tugging on it gently and trying to lead her in the direction of the stage door. Christine resisted, shaking her head. “No, no, we need to go down to his house, take back the things he might need. His nightclothes, and brushes, and slippers, and... Oh, my goodness, was his mask damaged?”
“All right, but we must be quick,” Meg said, glossing over yet another question to which she didn’t know the answer. “I have a cab waiting on the Rue Scribe.”
The two girls almost ran to Christine’s dressing room, locking the door behind them and slipping through the mirror. Christine did not think she had ever descended to the fifth cellar so fast, making her way down the stairs and through the eternal night of the tunnels as though she was learning Erik’s trick of seeing in the dark, avoiding the snares and trapdoors almost by instinct. The gondola was still tied up on the other side of the lake, but Meg showed her the little wooden craft she and Raoul had discovered in its rocky boathouse and within a few minutes the two of them were rowing across the calm black water, guided by their flickering candle and the eerie green luminescence of the cavern walls. For the second time that morning Christine entered the empty underground house, her heart heavy now that she knew the reason for its owner’s absence.
She rummaged in the bottom of his wardrobe, finding a carpet bag and throwing inside all the things she knew he would require: clothes, toiletries and, after going through the chest of drawers and feeling as though she were intruding, one of his spare masks, which she found in the very last drawer, carefully wrapped in tissue paper. As Meg again exhorted her to hurry she picked up his book from the arm of the chair and tossed a couple of others, picked at random from the shelves, into the bag after it. From the hall table she grabbed the basket she had left behind earlier, passing it to her friend and, after turning down all the lamps and checking one last time for anything she had missed, Christine carefully secured the front door, making sure that it could not be detected by curious eyes. This done, she and Meg ran lightly up the spiral staircase that led to the Rue Scribe gate.
The Rue St Denis was a good fifteen minute ride from the Opera, in one of the wealthier districts. Christine’s fingers were clenched around the handle of the carpet bag, knuckles white, as she dreaded what she might find upon their arrival. What if... she barely dared to even give form to the thought but it crept upon her regardless. What if when she reached him Erik was... dead?
“I’m sure he’ll be all right, Christine,” Meg said gently, laying a hand over hers. Christine jumped, not realising she had spoken aloud. “He’s strong; think of what he’s had to go through during his life. If he wasn’t a fighter he wouldn’t have survived, would he?”
“I know, it’s just... everyone’s luck has to run out one day.” Christine’s voice cracked and she took a deep breath, determined not to cry yet. What use were tears? Erik always hated to see her cry.
“Well, that day isn’t today,” Meg told her, and she sounded so sure that Christine almost believed her.
________________________________________
“Meg found you! Oh, thank God!”
Theodora Merriman met them in the hall, looking rather different in a simple, high-necked blouse and skirt, her magnificent chestnut hair loosely pinned. There was an older woman with her, tall and heavy-set with iron-grey curls, who looked on with a faintly disapproving air, as though she thought that Teddy should have left welcoming her guests to the rather stiff butler who had let them in. Christine was grateful when the Prima Donna clasped her hand and drew her towards the staircase, explaining how she and her friend had come across the altercation in which Erik had been injured and brought him home.
“I wish I could call it a fight, but it was three against one,” Teddy said as they climbed the stairs, the other woman following. “I’m so sorry, Christine, really I am. I would have sent someone to fetch you the moment we got back here but - ”
“I understand. Thank you for looking after him,” Christine replied, her heart pounding louder in her ears the nearer they came to the bedroom in which Erik must be lying. “How...” Her voice failed her and she swallowed. “How is he?”
Theodora looked sad. They came to a halt before a white-painted door, and she kept her hold on Christine’s hand. “He was bashed up pretty badly; the doctor said he’s got two severely bruised ribs and various other cuts and contusions so he won’t be going anywhere for a little while. His right cheekbone and eye took the brunt of one punch; that side of his face is much weaker than the left, but I guess you already knew that. There’s a gash right across his forehead that looks as if it was made with a ring of some sort, and he was hit hard on the back of the head. That’s the injury that’s concerning the doctor the most.”
“Is he... Can I see him?”
“Of course. Madame Giry’s sitting with him.” Teddy smiled. “He’s been asking for you.”
Christine looked up in surprise. “He has woken, then?” she asked, hope, that had been dashed low only a moment before, rising a little within her breast.
“Once or twice. He blacked out again almost immediately but the doctor did say it was better for him to wake even for a few moments than to remain in a coma. Your name has been almost the only word on his lips since I found him.”
“Oh, my...” Christine moved towards the door, and would have turned the handle but she realised she was still holding the carpet bag with one hand and Theodora still clasped the other. She lifted the bag. “These are his things. Shall I - ?”
“Martha will take those,” Theodora said, relieving her of the bag and passing it to the grey-haired woman who took it without comment. “Would either of you like some tea? Something to eat?”
Christine shook her head but Meg piped up hesitantly, “I wouldn’t mind a piece of toast or a croissant if you have one. I missed breakfast.”
“Go with Martha; she’ll sort you out with anything you need.” Meg looked at the older lady with a slightly unconvinced air, but followed when Martha inclined her head towards the stairs, squeezing Christine’s shoulder reassuringly as she passed. “Are you all right, Christine?” Teddy asked when they had gone, her green eyes full of concern.
“I’ll be fine,” Christine said with a sniff. “It’s just the shock; he was injured not so long ago and I thought I was going to lose him... oh, Teddy, why would anyone want to harm him like this?”
Theodora sighed. “I don’t know, sweetheart, but what I can tell you is that they weren’t out to rob him. His wallet and watch were both still there when we undressed him and his signet ring is still on his finger.” Pausing a moment to let that information sink in, she opened the bedroom door and ushered Christine gently across the threshold.
It was all Christine could do not to cry out when she saw Erik lying in the canopied bed like a broken marionette, his head swathed with bandages. The right side of his face was a mess of purple and black, his eye almost completely swollen shut and pushing the scar tissue that already covered the deformity even further out of shape. He was horribly pale, and she could see through the open collar of the borrowed nightshirt he wore that his chest had been bandaged too. Madame Giry, who had been sitting in the armchair beside the bed, rose as they entered, crossing quickly to Christine and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“It looks far worse than it is,” she said quietly. “Most of the injuries are superficial and will heal soon enough.”
“What... what about the others?” Christine whispered, unable to take her eyes from her fiancé’s unconscious form. Even when he had been shot by the marksman during Don Juan Triumphant he had not as looked as lifeless as this.
The ballet mistress sighed. “We will just have to wait and see.” She guided her former pupil to the chair beside the bed and crouched down, trying to look Christine in the eye. Her mouth jerked upwards in a tight little smile. “I’ll fetch you a hot drink,” she said. “You need something to sustain you.”
“May I... May I have a few moments alone with him?” Christine asked, feeling the tears begin to encroach upon her again.
“Of course.” Standing again, Madame Giry patted her on the shoulder. “If you need anything, one of us will be within call.”
Christine tried to thank her but the words would not come. She waited, listening for the door to close behind the two women, her mouth contorting in despair as she tried to hold back; with a wail she slumped over the bed, hands reaching blindly for Erik’s, her body heaving as it was shaken by wrenching sobs.
“Please, no, not like this...not after everything we’ve been through...”
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 3201
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Christine Daae, Madame Giry, Meg Giry
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: The house by the lake is empty and Christine is frantic...
“Good morning, Erik! Bruno, I hope you’ve been a good boy and not been annoying Papa; you know he doesn’t like it.”
He wouldn’t like being referred to as ‘Papa’ either, Christine thought with a smile as she shut the front door behind her and picked up the basket she’d rested on the hall table. Inside was another bone for the spaniel, a pair of clippers she’d bought in a shop recommended by Alphonse Renard to tidy up Bruno’s coat and a bottle of wine with which she hoped to placate Erik. He’d become increasingly twitchy over Bruno’s continued presence in his home since the impromptu manifestation of the ‘Phantom’ at Friday’s rehearsal, so much so that the following day he’d actually paid one of the runners to take the little dog out for a walk until the practise session was over. When they returned after several hours poor Jean-Paul looked exhausted but Bruno was in high spirits, tail wagging madly. She hoped that Erik wouldn’t insist on the same charade this morning, and was ready to do battle with him over shutting Bruno out by the lake while she had her lesson; she couldn’t concentrate for worrying that he might fall in and drown, a sentiment at which Erik had rolled his eyes and reminded her that dogs were in fact strong swimmers. That was all very well, Christine had countered, but what if he hadn’t been taught?
The underground house was strangely quiet. Although it was still early Erik would usually be in the music room waiting for her, a cup of tea or coffee, the only breakfast he allowed himself, at his elbow. It was very odd not to hear snatches of whatever composition had taken his fancy at that particular moment winding their way down the hall and out into the cavern beyond. To be greeted by complete and utter silence was worrying, and as Christine ventured further down the passage she realised that the gas lamps were turned down low, as they usually were at night; he never let the house descend completely into darkness in case she ever had a reason to arrive at an unsociable hour.
“Hello?” she called, abandoning the basket and walking cautiously towards the library. There was no light under the door and when she ventured inside she found that the room was empty; turning up one of the lamps it was obvious from the neat aspect with which she was presented that he had not been there for some hours. The libretto for Die Fledermaus was closed on the piano and the book he had been reading sat on the arm of his wing chair, a ribbon marker halfway through. Shutting the door again Christine made her way instead to his bedroom across the hall. “Erik? Erik, are you there?”
There was no answer. The bedroom was equally dark and devoid of life. It did not take long to determine that the bed had not been slept in; the covers were pulled so straight that they appeared to have been guided by a ruler and his slippers stood side by side on the rug. She knew that this was not unusual - Erik often spent all night working and grabbed what little sleep he needed slumped over piano or organ – but there was no sign of him anywhere and worry began to nag at her stomach, flipping it over. Running back into the hall she checked the table by the door for his keys and the coat stand for his hat; both were missing. Of course, he had to go above sometimes in order to buy food and any other necessities, and doubtless Bruno would have been whining to be taken out, but she had never known him not to be present when he was expecting her for a lesson. He had never missed one of her lessons. Only something truly dreadful happening would keep him away...
Terrified now, shawl trailing unnoticed on the floor, Christine all but flew from the house, slamming the front door behind her.
She had to find him.
________________________________________
By the time she reached the upper levels of the theatre she was frantic.
There door to Erik’s office was locked, none of the crew members she hunted out had seen him and Madame Giry, the one person who might know where he was, had apparently vanished too. According to Ilya, the Russian principal dancer, the ballet mistress had not turned up for work, instead sending a message to the management via Meg. Christine was in a greater panic than she could ever recall as she searched room after room for her friend; Meg seemed to be doing a wonderful job of hiding, too. Hoisting her skirts high so that she would not trip on them and not caring that everyone could see her ankles, she ran down the narrow passages of the backstage warren, apologising to anyone she knocked over or accidentally trod upon. Christophe Fortier did not seem bothered when she stumbled and fell against him, and it was she could do to extricate herself from his overly protective grip as he set her back on her feet; he looked put out as she wrenched herself away with breathless thanks, calling after her,
“Hey! Where’s the fire?”
Christine careered around the corner, desperate now to find someone who might know her fiancé’s whereabouts, and bumped straight into a gaggle of ballet rats coming in the opposite direction. They all squealed and flapped like a flock of pigeons and Christine found herself apologising once again, struggling to right herself when no one so much as offered a hand. Ever since her engagement to Erik became common knowledge most of them had been hostile towards her, as though they thought she was getting above herself. She had, after all, once been one of them, and they clearly resented her good fortune.
“Have any of you seen Meg this morning?” she asked, and was greeted with a circle of barely disguised glares.
“Should we have done?” one of them, a new recruit whose name Christine couldn’t remember, asked.
“I thought you might have; she is - ”
“We have more important things to concern us,” Dorothée told her rudely, jerking a thumb behind her, and Christine could see in their midst a very unhappy-looking Hortense, her make-up running in streaks down her face and a soggy, twisted handkerchief in her hands. The dark-haired ballerina was being comforted by Giselle, who had her arm around Hortense’s shoulders and a sympathetic expression on her face.
“Never mind,” she was saying, “There are plenty of other fish in the sea.”
“A bâtard like that who stands you up isn’t worth crying over,” Dorothée added, ignoring Christine’s continued presence and tossing her hair over her shoulder.
“I trusted him!” Hortense exclaimed. “He was so nice on Friday, he asked me all about myself, bought me drinks, made me feel like a princess. I agreed to meet him again last night; I waited for hours at the entrance to the fair but he never came!”
The other two made noises of commiseration. “Men are rats, Hortense,” said Dorothée. “Worse, they’re fleas on rats. No, they’re whatever is small and disgusting that lives on fleas on rats. You can’t believe a word they say.”
Hortense nodded miserably. “I know. But I liked him so much!” she wailed, breaking down in noisy tears. “All the showmen were watching me and laughing. One of them even propositioned me! I’ve never felt so humiliated!”
“I’m sorry,” Christine said as the ballerinas gathered around their sobbing friend, offering fresh handkerchiefs and platitudes, “but I really do need to find Meg. Have any of you - ”
“Christine!” At the sound of her name she spun around to see Meg herself hurrying down the corridor. Incredibly, Little Giry was still in her street clothes, clutching her bag and shawl, a tiny straw hat pinned clumsily to her curls. Despite herself Christine couldn’t help but stare: for Meg not to be ready for practise so close to rehearsal was unheard of. Gasping for breath after her dash, Meg caught hold of Christine by the elbow, drawing her aside. “Oh, thank goodness I’ve found you! I’ve been looking everywhere; your landlady said you left hours ago!”
“I had a lesson with Erik before rehearsal,” Christine replied, her stomach seeming to drop a foot in the face of her friend’s consternation. “Meg, have you seen him? The house is empty and his bed hasn’t been slept in - ”
Meg’s usually sunny face became grim, and she steered Christine away from the flapping ears of the other ballet rats. “Come with me. I have something to tell you...”
________________________________________
“Attacked? How can he have been attacked?”
“I don’t know. The message came for Maman before we got up; she went to answer the door and the next thing I knew she was flying back down the hall and throwing on her clothes as fast as she could,” Meg said. “She told me to find you and bring you to Mademoiselle Merriman’s house in the Rue Saint Denis.”
Christine’s anxiety was now mixed with complete bewilderment. “Mademoiselle Merriman? What has she to do with this?”
Again Meg admitted that she had no idea. “We should hurry; I’ve already spoken to Monsieur Reyer and given Maman’s note to the managers so we won’t be missed. I think... I think he’s in a bad way, Christine.”
“Oh, my poor Erik.” Christine covered her mouth with her hand, trying to hold back the tears that sprang into her eyes at the thought of him lying hurt. Meg took her other hand, tugging on it gently and trying to lead her in the direction of the stage door. Christine resisted, shaking her head. “No, no, we need to go down to his house, take back the things he might need. His nightclothes, and brushes, and slippers, and... Oh, my goodness, was his mask damaged?”
“All right, but we must be quick,” Meg said, glossing over yet another question to which she didn’t know the answer. “I have a cab waiting on the Rue Scribe.”
The two girls almost ran to Christine’s dressing room, locking the door behind them and slipping through the mirror. Christine did not think she had ever descended to the fifth cellar so fast, making her way down the stairs and through the eternal night of the tunnels as though she was learning Erik’s trick of seeing in the dark, avoiding the snares and trapdoors almost by instinct. The gondola was still tied up on the other side of the lake, but Meg showed her the little wooden craft she and Raoul had discovered in its rocky boathouse and within a few minutes the two of them were rowing across the calm black water, guided by their flickering candle and the eerie green luminescence of the cavern walls. For the second time that morning Christine entered the empty underground house, her heart heavy now that she knew the reason for its owner’s absence.
She rummaged in the bottom of his wardrobe, finding a carpet bag and throwing inside all the things she knew he would require: clothes, toiletries and, after going through the chest of drawers and feeling as though she were intruding, one of his spare masks, which she found in the very last drawer, carefully wrapped in tissue paper. As Meg again exhorted her to hurry she picked up his book from the arm of the chair and tossed a couple of others, picked at random from the shelves, into the bag after it. From the hall table she grabbed the basket she had left behind earlier, passing it to her friend and, after turning down all the lamps and checking one last time for anything she had missed, Christine carefully secured the front door, making sure that it could not be detected by curious eyes. This done, she and Meg ran lightly up the spiral staircase that led to the Rue Scribe gate.
The Rue St Denis was a good fifteen minute ride from the Opera, in one of the wealthier districts. Christine’s fingers were clenched around the handle of the carpet bag, knuckles white, as she dreaded what she might find upon their arrival. What if... she barely dared to even give form to the thought but it crept upon her regardless. What if when she reached him Erik was... dead?
“I’m sure he’ll be all right, Christine,” Meg said gently, laying a hand over hers. Christine jumped, not realising she had spoken aloud. “He’s strong; think of what he’s had to go through during his life. If he wasn’t a fighter he wouldn’t have survived, would he?”
“I know, it’s just... everyone’s luck has to run out one day.” Christine’s voice cracked and she took a deep breath, determined not to cry yet. What use were tears? Erik always hated to see her cry.
“Well, that day isn’t today,” Meg told her, and she sounded so sure that Christine almost believed her.
________________________________________
“Meg found you! Oh, thank God!”
Theodora Merriman met them in the hall, looking rather different in a simple, high-necked blouse and skirt, her magnificent chestnut hair loosely pinned. There was an older woman with her, tall and heavy-set with iron-grey curls, who looked on with a faintly disapproving air, as though she thought that Teddy should have left welcoming her guests to the rather stiff butler who had let them in. Christine was grateful when the Prima Donna clasped her hand and drew her towards the staircase, explaining how she and her friend had come across the altercation in which Erik had been injured and brought him home.
“I wish I could call it a fight, but it was three against one,” Teddy said as they climbed the stairs, the other woman following. “I’m so sorry, Christine, really I am. I would have sent someone to fetch you the moment we got back here but - ”
“I understand. Thank you for looking after him,” Christine replied, her heart pounding louder in her ears the nearer they came to the bedroom in which Erik must be lying. “How...” Her voice failed her and she swallowed. “How is he?”
Theodora looked sad. They came to a halt before a white-painted door, and she kept her hold on Christine’s hand. “He was bashed up pretty badly; the doctor said he’s got two severely bruised ribs and various other cuts and contusions so he won’t be going anywhere for a little while. His right cheekbone and eye took the brunt of one punch; that side of his face is much weaker than the left, but I guess you already knew that. There’s a gash right across his forehead that looks as if it was made with a ring of some sort, and he was hit hard on the back of the head. That’s the injury that’s concerning the doctor the most.”
“Is he... Can I see him?”
“Of course. Madame Giry’s sitting with him.” Teddy smiled. “He’s been asking for you.”
Christine looked up in surprise. “He has woken, then?” she asked, hope, that had been dashed low only a moment before, rising a little within her breast.
“Once or twice. He blacked out again almost immediately but the doctor did say it was better for him to wake even for a few moments than to remain in a coma. Your name has been almost the only word on his lips since I found him.”
“Oh, my...” Christine moved towards the door, and would have turned the handle but she realised she was still holding the carpet bag with one hand and Theodora still clasped the other. She lifted the bag. “These are his things. Shall I - ?”
“Martha will take those,” Theodora said, relieving her of the bag and passing it to the grey-haired woman who took it without comment. “Would either of you like some tea? Something to eat?”
Christine shook her head but Meg piped up hesitantly, “I wouldn’t mind a piece of toast or a croissant if you have one. I missed breakfast.”
“Go with Martha; she’ll sort you out with anything you need.” Meg looked at the older lady with a slightly unconvinced air, but followed when Martha inclined her head towards the stairs, squeezing Christine’s shoulder reassuringly as she passed. “Are you all right, Christine?” Teddy asked when they had gone, her green eyes full of concern.
“I’ll be fine,” Christine said with a sniff. “It’s just the shock; he was injured not so long ago and I thought I was going to lose him... oh, Teddy, why would anyone want to harm him like this?”
Theodora sighed. “I don’t know, sweetheart, but what I can tell you is that they weren’t out to rob him. His wallet and watch were both still there when we undressed him and his signet ring is still on his finger.” Pausing a moment to let that information sink in, she opened the bedroom door and ushered Christine gently across the threshold.
It was all Christine could do not to cry out when she saw Erik lying in the canopied bed like a broken marionette, his head swathed with bandages. The right side of his face was a mess of purple and black, his eye almost completely swollen shut and pushing the scar tissue that already covered the deformity even further out of shape. He was horribly pale, and she could see through the open collar of the borrowed nightshirt he wore that his chest had been bandaged too. Madame Giry, who had been sitting in the armchair beside the bed, rose as they entered, crossing quickly to Christine and wrapping an arm around her shoulders.
“It looks far worse than it is,” she said quietly. “Most of the injuries are superficial and will heal soon enough.”
“What... what about the others?” Christine whispered, unable to take her eyes from her fiancé’s unconscious form. Even when he had been shot by the marksman during Don Juan Triumphant he had not as looked as lifeless as this.
The ballet mistress sighed. “We will just have to wait and see.” She guided her former pupil to the chair beside the bed and crouched down, trying to look Christine in the eye. Her mouth jerked upwards in a tight little smile. “I’ll fetch you a hot drink,” she said. “You need something to sustain you.”
“May I... May I have a few moments alone with him?” Christine asked, feeling the tears begin to encroach upon her again.
“Of course.” Standing again, Madame Giry patted her on the shoulder. “If you need anything, one of us will be within call.”
Christine tried to thank her but the words would not come. She waited, listening for the door to close behind the two women, her mouth contorting in despair as she tried to hold back; with a wail she slumped over the bed, hands reaching blindly for Erik’s, her body heaving as it was shaken by wrenching sobs.
“Please, no, not like this...not after everything we’ve been through...”
