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charleygirlTitle: The Garish Light of Day 13/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2599
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: The return to the house by the lake.
HOME SWEET HOME
“I’ve missed this place,” Christine said, stroking the red velvet curtain which hung over the music room door. It was opulent, trimmed with gold tassels, but the gilding and the fabric were a little worn and faded which made her think that Erik might have appropriated it from the prop store in the first cellar above them. She brushed at the dust which clung to the folds and tried not to sneeze as it tickled her nose.
Erik himself was tutting at the fine layer which covered the furniture, testament to over two months away from his house. He stopped running his finger over the hall table and glaring at the smear of chalky white across its pad to glance up at her, surprised. “Really?” he enquired, eyebrow raised. “You honestly missed the silence and the darkness? Why should you hanker after such things when you have a life filled with light?”
“Did you not dream about the light when it was denied you?” she asked.
“Of course. But such a denial was not my choice. There is no reason why you should wish for something like this, for the life that has been mine for so many long years,” he said. Abruptly he turned, pushing aside the curtain and opening the door; once inside he prowled the music room much as he had done every other since their return, checking for any sign of intruders. Christine, following in his wake, was pleased and relieved to find that there had been none. Though Meg had assured her that the story she fed to the staff of the theatre the morning after Don Juan Triumphant had worked, and that no one would try to go after the Phantom, Christine still felt apprehensive. While the cast and crew might not have had the best education available, they were very far from stupid and they had seen Erik clearly on the stage that evening. In their position, she was not entirely sure she would believe that the stranger in their midst was merely a singing teacher jumping into the breach and not the man who had been causing disruption to their daily lives for longer than many of them cared to remember.
Approaching the piano, Erik lifted the lid and played an experimental scale. His tongue clucked in annoyance, as it was obvious the instrument had fallen out of tune during his absence. Christine leaned upon the polished wood as she had done so often in the past and watched him as he began to take bound scores and piles of compositions from the bookcase. He sorted though them, putting some to one side, perhaps intending to offer them to the music publishers, and discarding others with a frown. He had told Christine nothing of his success with Messieurs Langé and St Just but Madame Giry had been far more forthcoming on the subject, a little smile of victory on her lips as she revealed Erik’s reluctant acceptance of his new status as a published composer.
After listening to the rustling of paper interspersed with the steady ticking of the mantelpiece clock, Christine said as though their conversation had not been interrupted, “It is strange, but I find myself drawn to the darkness. I have always loved this house.”
“It is little more than a hole in the ground,” Erik replied, his tone distracted.
“It is a very well-appointed hole in the ground.” She looked around her, at the elegant but comfortable furniture, the dark Persian rugs and the many lamps and candelabra. It might not have windows and a view, but the underground house was unique, and, in its own way, quite beautiful. Best of all, it was an expression of his personality, of his passions and flair for design. It breathed of Erik, and she loved it even more because of that. “Besides,” she added, making him look up once more, “I would happily live in a hole if it meant I could be with you.”
“You deserve better,” he said, but his eyes appeared to mist slightly. “However, if you can find some comfort here then I am glad for it. This place has seen little beyond misery and frustration in the past.”
“Let the past stay past,” Christine told him, rounding the piano to lay her head upon his shoulder. “Let us imagine instead the happy times which lay ahead of us.”
“You seem very confident that there will be some.” He sounded amused. “Have you perhaps been consulting your crystal ball again?”
“No, I gave it up when I realised I didn’t have the scarf and gold earrings to truly set it off.” she joked, and met his mismatched gaze. “Do you not think that we are due some happiness after everything that has happened?”
Erik sighed. “Forgive me, my dear. Optimism has never been my strong suit.”
“We will have to see what we can do to change that,” Christine said brightly. He looked at her for a long moment, expression unreadable, before returning his attention to the music in front of him. She restrained a sigh of her own and wandered away, leaving him to his work.
Though she supposed she could not blame him given the life he had lived, she could not help but feel frustration at his tendency to look upon the black side of things. Where she searched the clouds for the silver lining, it seemed that Erik would always see the imminent rain shower. His moods had only been worse since their encounter with Francois Béringer, and though she tried to persuade him of the futility of such actions, he scoured the newspapers, morning and evening, for any sign that the journalist had turned the scuffle into lucrative column inches. Thankfully there had been nothing so far, but relations had been cool between them for a couple of days following the incident; Christine did her best to convince Erik that she had not neglected to tell him of the reporter’s overtures towards her for malicious reasons, but she was still not completely sure that he believed her. She had known that he was not an easy man to understand and she was trying her hardest, but it was difficult not to be confused and sometimes hurt when he could be wildly emotional one moment and as enigmatic as a Sphinx the next.
Christine drifted through the house, taking the opportunity to look properly at the gowns hanging in her wardrobe. She took out one or two, delighting in their colours and decoration, and held them up before her in the mirror, wondering whether she would ever have a suitable occasion to wear the stunning burgundy and cream Worth creation with its wide, scooping neckline, dark velvet train and tiny lace sleeves. In a box on the dressing table she found matching hair ornaments and long cream satin gloves to complete the ensemble. It was hard to imagine quite why Erik had chosen such a dress for her unless he had been dreaming of entering the grand foyer for one of the Opera balls with her on his arm. She would like nothing more, but such an occurrence was so unlikely as to be practically impossible. Thinking of the silent theatre above her head and almost hearing the ghostly strains of a waltz, Christine carefully put the dress away, firmly closing the wardrobe door.
Erik was still engrossed; occasionally snatches of music drifted down the hall as he tried out combinations of notes, and she was surprised by the light, attractive nature of the piece. So many of his works had dark, dangerous undertones that it was unusual for him to be playing something which sounded at times like the trilling of birdsong, even if it was rather off-pitch due to the state of the piano. Christine tried not to feel ignored; after so many weeks away from his beloved instruments it was quite natural that he felt inexorably drawn to them, to the exclusion of all else. The annoyance he felt at being unable to play even his violin had been palpable.
Her feet had taken her almost without her realising to his bedroom. Because it was the scene of her lessons the music room had always been her favourite, but Erik’s own chamber held memories of a different nature; it was here that they had taken those tentative steps after admitting their love for one another, and she had helped to nurse him as he recovered from the injury inflicted by one of Raoul’s marksmen. Those few days had been some of the happiest of her life so far, and she sat down on the neatly-made bed, remembering the hours when she would just sit and watch him sleep.
The huge mahogany cabinet which held his clothes stood against the opposite wall, and one of the intricately-carved doors stood slightly open. Christine called to him, asking if there was anything he needed to take back to Madame’s for the few more days he would stay before returning permanently to his home. Neither of them had yet mustered enough courage to tell the ballet mistress that Erik would be departing. Christine thought she heard him mutter something about another pair of shoes and so she opened the wardrobe, rummaging through the shelves inside to find his footwear. Amid well-worn portmanteaux and battered leather bags that must have come from his travelling days she found various pairs of the black lace-up boots he favoured, choosing the newest-looking and putting them to one side. Looking through a man’s personal effects was not something she had done since the death of her father, and she found herself suddenly fascinated by the contents of the cupboard.
One of the bags smelt of Eastern spices, and she inhaled deeply, relishing the unusual fragrance. Erik had more clothes than she expected, having seen him almost continually in those exquisitely-tailored dress suits he wore around the Opera. There was a heavy cashmere winter cloak with a plain velvet collar and a charcoal-grey overcoat that looked brand new. Two suits, one of a similar colour to the coat, the other black, hung next to them, the skirts of the jackets long and full in the style of a gentleman about town; the trousers were perfectly pressed and folded over their hangers and the collar and cuffs of the coats were immaculate, making Christine suspect that they had never been worn. She ran her hand over a row of starched white shirts and found a selection of waistcoats in various different colours, even a deep burgundy that would almost exactly match the dress in her own room. A frown creased her brow; why would Erik buy such garments if he had no intention of ever putting them on?
He called her name, and so she quickly closed the wardrobe door and picked up the boots, hurrying back down the hallway. When she reached him Erik was still at the piano but his head was cocked towards the ceiling and he appeared to be listening intently.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, and so Christine listened too but all she could make out was the ticking of the clock and the occasional swishing of water in the storm drains around them.
“No. What is it?” she enquired.
“I’m not sure. It sounded like... no, never mind. It is probably nothing.” He shook his head, turning his attention back to the manuscript sheet in front of him, one of his distinctive green quills in his hand. Christine told herself that when she was once more in gainful employment she would save up the money to buy him one of the beautiful new Waterman fountain pens that she and Meg had seen on their window shopping expedition. She put down his boots on the rich cloth that covered the lid of the piano and he nodded absently in thanks.
Knowing that she would get little more out of him for some time, Christine huffed, blowing out her cheeks, and sat down on the sofa, running her eye over the many books on the shelves in front of her. Erik had an enormous library, evidently collected over many years, but his indexing system was complicated and confusing to anyone but him; the last time Christine found herself searching for something to read she ended up utterly perplexed by the random order of the volumes, which were apparently cross-referenced by subject, author and use in at least five different languages. Amused after watching her try and puzzle it out for almost half an hour, he eventually took pity on her and produced a Jane Austen from a high shelf; she wondered whether she could find it now, as the exploits of Lizzie Bennett and Mr Darcy would help to pass the time in a rather enjoyable manner.
She scanned the shelves for a good fifteen minutes, but the only novels she turned up were well-thumbed Tolstoys and Dostoyevskys in the original Russian and a rather dog-eared copy of The Three Musketeers which had evidently seen some travelling judging by the state of the cover. It did not help matters that her gaze kept being drawn to the alcove with the velvet curtains, behind which she knew lurked the mannequin, the doll in her likeness, the sight of which had caused her to faint that first evening in Erik’s home. She could not help but be bothered by the thing’s existence, but now she felt curiosity rather than fear. Abandoning her search of the bookcase, she made her hesitant way across the room, reaching out to draw the heavy drapes.
Before she could touch them, a hand caught hold of her wrist. Erik gently turned her from the alcove, saying quietly, “Not that, Christine, please.”
“I only wanted to see,” she told him truthfully. “I remember the dress; such a beautiful dress.”
He didn’t look at her; his visible cheek was pink with obvious embarrassment. “I am... gratified that you think so. I designed it myself.”
“Erik...” Christine said tentatively, “Why did you make it – the doll, I mean? It is rather - ”
“I suppose...” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and when he finally raised his head there was the slightest trace of a bittersweet smile on his face. “I suppose I thought it was the only way I could have you here with me. You must accept my sincere apologies, my dear, for such terrible, unforgivable presumption. I will destroy it, I promise you, but in the meantime... please leave the drapes closed. It pains me to look upon my own folly.”
She nodded, and caught his hand as he released her wrist. “Thank you. But, Erik... please don’t destroy the dress. I hope that one day I will be able to wear it.”
“You...” He stared at her, something akin to astonishment in his eyes. “You really want to..?”
“Yes.” She found herself trying not to laugh for he looked just like a deer caught in the headlamps of an approaching carriage. “Yes, Erik, I do.”
Erik did laugh, his shock crumpling into relief with the sound. “I never thought I would - ” he began, and then, to Christine’s disappointment the moment was broken as he tensed once more, listening. “There it is again! Tell me you can hear it now,” he begged, and for the first time she found that she could. Somehow, incredibly, she could hear voices, and they were coming from the upper levels of the building.
The Opera Populaire was abandoned no longer.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 2599
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: The return to the house by the lake.
HOME SWEET HOME
“I’ve missed this place,” Christine said, stroking the red velvet curtain which hung over the music room door. It was opulent, trimmed with gold tassels, but the gilding and the fabric were a little worn and faded which made her think that Erik might have appropriated it from the prop store in the first cellar above them. She brushed at the dust which clung to the folds and tried not to sneeze as it tickled her nose.
Erik himself was tutting at the fine layer which covered the furniture, testament to over two months away from his house. He stopped running his finger over the hall table and glaring at the smear of chalky white across its pad to glance up at her, surprised. “Really?” he enquired, eyebrow raised. “You honestly missed the silence and the darkness? Why should you hanker after such things when you have a life filled with light?”
“Did you not dream about the light when it was denied you?” she asked.
“Of course. But such a denial was not my choice. There is no reason why you should wish for something like this, for the life that has been mine for so many long years,” he said. Abruptly he turned, pushing aside the curtain and opening the door; once inside he prowled the music room much as he had done every other since their return, checking for any sign of intruders. Christine, following in his wake, was pleased and relieved to find that there had been none. Though Meg had assured her that the story she fed to the staff of the theatre the morning after Don Juan Triumphant had worked, and that no one would try to go after the Phantom, Christine still felt apprehensive. While the cast and crew might not have had the best education available, they were very far from stupid and they had seen Erik clearly on the stage that evening. In their position, she was not entirely sure she would believe that the stranger in their midst was merely a singing teacher jumping into the breach and not the man who had been causing disruption to their daily lives for longer than many of them cared to remember.
Approaching the piano, Erik lifted the lid and played an experimental scale. His tongue clucked in annoyance, as it was obvious the instrument had fallen out of tune during his absence. Christine leaned upon the polished wood as she had done so often in the past and watched him as he began to take bound scores and piles of compositions from the bookcase. He sorted though them, putting some to one side, perhaps intending to offer them to the music publishers, and discarding others with a frown. He had told Christine nothing of his success with Messieurs Langé and St Just but Madame Giry had been far more forthcoming on the subject, a little smile of victory on her lips as she revealed Erik’s reluctant acceptance of his new status as a published composer.
After listening to the rustling of paper interspersed with the steady ticking of the mantelpiece clock, Christine said as though their conversation had not been interrupted, “It is strange, but I find myself drawn to the darkness. I have always loved this house.”
“It is little more than a hole in the ground,” Erik replied, his tone distracted.
“It is a very well-appointed hole in the ground.” She looked around her, at the elegant but comfortable furniture, the dark Persian rugs and the many lamps and candelabra. It might not have windows and a view, but the underground house was unique, and, in its own way, quite beautiful. Best of all, it was an expression of his personality, of his passions and flair for design. It breathed of Erik, and she loved it even more because of that. “Besides,” she added, making him look up once more, “I would happily live in a hole if it meant I could be with you.”
“You deserve better,” he said, but his eyes appeared to mist slightly. “However, if you can find some comfort here then I am glad for it. This place has seen little beyond misery and frustration in the past.”
“Let the past stay past,” Christine told him, rounding the piano to lay her head upon his shoulder. “Let us imagine instead the happy times which lay ahead of us.”
“You seem very confident that there will be some.” He sounded amused. “Have you perhaps been consulting your crystal ball again?”
“No, I gave it up when I realised I didn’t have the scarf and gold earrings to truly set it off.” she joked, and met his mismatched gaze. “Do you not think that we are due some happiness after everything that has happened?”
Erik sighed. “Forgive me, my dear. Optimism has never been my strong suit.”
“We will have to see what we can do to change that,” Christine said brightly. He looked at her for a long moment, expression unreadable, before returning his attention to the music in front of him. She restrained a sigh of her own and wandered away, leaving him to his work.
Though she supposed she could not blame him given the life he had lived, she could not help but feel frustration at his tendency to look upon the black side of things. Where she searched the clouds for the silver lining, it seemed that Erik would always see the imminent rain shower. His moods had only been worse since their encounter with Francois Béringer, and though she tried to persuade him of the futility of such actions, he scoured the newspapers, morning and evening, for any sign that the journalist had turned the scuffle into lucrative column inches. Thankfully there had been nothing so far, but relations had been cool between them for a couple of days following the incident; Christine did her best to convince Erik that she had not neglected to tell him of the reporter’s overtures towards her for malicious reasons, but she was still not completely sure that he believed her. She had known that he was not an easy man to understand and she was trying her hardest, but it was difficult not to be confused and sometimes hurt when he could be wildly emotional one moment and as enigmatic as a Sphinx the next.
Christine drifted through the house, taking the opportunity to look properly at the gowns hanging in her wardrobe. She took out one or two, delighting in their colours and decoration, and held them up before her in the mirror, wondering whether she would ever have a suitable occasion to wear the stunning burgundy and cream Worth creation with its wide, scooping neckline, dark velvet train and tiny lace sleeves. In a box on the dressing table she found matching hair ornaments and long cream satin gloves to complete the ensemble. It was hard to imagine quite why Erik had chosen such a dress for her unless he had been dreaming of entering the grand foyer for one of the Opera balls with her on his arm. She would like nothing more, but such an occurrence was so unlikely as to be practically impossible. Thinking of the silent theatre above her head and almost hearing the ghostly strains of a waltz, Christine carefully put the dress away, firmly closing the wardrobe door.
Erik was still engrossed; occasionally snatches of music drifted down the hall as he tried out combinations of notes, and she was surprised by the light, attractive nature of the piece. So many of his works had dark, dangerous undertones that it was unusual for him to be playing something which sounded at times like the trilling of birdsong, even if it was rather off-pitch due to the state of the piano. Christine tried not to feel ignored; after so many weeks away from his beloved instruments it was quite natural that he felt inexorably drawn to them, to the exclusion of all else. The annoyance he felt at being unable to play even his violin had been palpable.
Her feet had taken her almost without her realising to his bedroom. Because it was the scene of her lessons the music room had always been her favourite, but Erik’s own chamber held memories of a different nature; it was here that they had taken those tentative steps after admitting their love for one another, and she had helped to nurse him as he recovered from the injury inflicted by one of Raoul’s marksmen. Those few days had been some of the happiest of her life so far, and she sat down on the neatly-made bed, remembering the hours when she would just sit and watch him sleep.
The huge mahogany cabinet which held his clothes stood against the opposite wall, and one of the intricately-carved doors stood slightly open. Christine called to him, asking if there was anything he needed to take back to Madame’s for the few more days he would stay before returning permanently to his home. Neither of them had yet mustered enough courage to tell the ballet mistress that Erik would be departing. Christine thought she heard him mutter something about another pair of shoes and so she opened the wardrobe, rummaging through the shelves inside to find his footwear. Amid well-worn portmanteaux and battered leather bags that must have come from his travelling days she found various pairs of the black lace-up boots he favoured, choosing the newest-looking and putting them to one side. Looking through a man’s personal effects was not something she had done since the death of her father, and she found herself suddenly fascinated by the contents of the cupboard.
One of the bags smelt of Eastern spices, and she inhaled deeply, relishing the unusual fragrance. Erik had more clothes than she expected, having seen him almost continually in those exquisitely-tailored dress suits he wore around the Opera. There was a heavy cashmere winter cloak with a plain velvet collar and a charcoal-grey overcoat that looked brand new. Two suits, one of a similar colour to the coat, the other black, hung next to them, the skirts of the jackets long and full in the style of a gentleman about town; the trousers were perfectly pressed and folded over their hangers and the collar and cuffs of the coats were immaculate, making Christine suspect that they had never been worn. She ran her hand over a row of starched white shirts and found a selection of waistcoats in various different colours, even a deep burgundy that would almost exactly match the dress in her own room. A frown creased her brow; why would Erik buy such garments if he had no intention of ever putting them on?
He called her name, and so she quickly closed the wardrobe door and picked up the boots, hurrying back down the hallway. When she reached him Erik was still at the piano but his head was cocked towards the ceiling and he appeared to be listening intently.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, and so Christine listened too but all she could make out was the ticking of the clock and the occasional swishing of water in the storm drains around them.
“No. What is it?” she enquired.
“I’m not sure. It sounded like... no, never mind. It is probably nothing.” He shook his head, turning his attention back to the manuscript sheet in front of him, one of his distinctive green quills in his hand. Christine told herself that when she was once more in gainful employment she would save up the money to buy him one of the beautiful new Waterman fountain pens that she and Meg had seen on their window shopping expedition. She put down his boots on the rich cloth that covered the lid of the piano and he nodded absently in thanks.
Knowing that she would get little more out of him for some time, Christine huffed, blowing out her cheeks, and sat down on the sofa, running her eye over the many books on the shelves in front of her. Erik had an enormous library, evidently collected over many years, but his indexing system was complicated and confusing to anyone but him; the last time Christine found herself searching for something to read she ended up utterly perplexed by the random order of the volumes, which were apparently cross-referenced by subject, author and use in at least five different languages. Amused after watching her try and puzzle it out for almost half an hour, he eventually took pity on her and produced a Jane Austen from a high shelf; she wondered whether she could find it now, as the exploits of Lizzie Bennett and Mr Darcy would help to pass the time in a rather enjoyable manner.
She scanned the shelves for a good fifteen minutes, but the only novels she turned up were well-thumbed Tolstoys and Dostoyevskys in the original Russian and a rather dog-eared copy of The Three Musketeers which had evidently seen some travelling judging by the state of the cover. It did not help matters that her gaze kept being drawn to the alcove with the velvet curtains, behind which she knew lurked the mannequin, the doll in her likeness, the sight of which had caused her to faint that first evening in Erik’s home. She could not help but be bothered by the thing’s existence, but now she felt curiosity rather than fear. Abandoning her search of the bookcase, she made her hesitant way across the room, reaching out to draw the heavy drapes.
Before she could touch them, a hand caught hold of her wrist. Erik gently turned her from the alcove, saying quietly, “Not that, Christine, please.”
“I only wanted to see,” she told him truthfully. “I remember the dress; such a beautiful dress.”
He didn’t look at her; his visible cheek was pink with obvious embarrassment. “I am... gratified that you think so. I designed it myself.”
“Erik...” Christine said tentatively, “Why did you make it – the doll, I mean? It is rather - ”
“I suppose...” He took a deep, shuddering breath, and when he finally raised his head there was the slightest trace of a bittersweet smile on his face. “I suppose I thought it was the only way I could have you here with me. You must accept my sincere apologies, my dear, for such terrible, unforgivable presumption. I will destroy it, I promise you, but in the meantime... please leave the drapes closed. It pains me to look upon my own folly.”
She nodded, and caught his hand as he released her wrist. “Thank you. But, Erik... please don’t destroy the dress. I hope that one day I will be able to wear it.”
“You...” He stared at her, something akin to astonishment in his eyes. “You really want to..?”
“Yes.” She found herself trying not to laugh for he looked just like a deer caught in the headlamps of an approaching carriage. “Yes, Erik, I do.”
Erik did laugh, his shock crumpling into relief with the sound. “I never thought I would - ” he began, and then, to Christine’s disappointment the moment was broken as he tensed once more, listening. “There it is again! Tell me you can hear it now,” he begged, and for the first time she found that she could. Somehow, incredibly, she could hear voices, and they were coming from the upper levels of the building.
The Opera Populaire was abandoned no longer.
