Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Christine Daae couldn't remember when she began to love performing. She guessed it was in her from the start, when her father would play the fiddle around a campfire, in the early days of their traveling. When she had an audience, someone besides her father, she found herself coming alight within herself, glowing beyond the firelight with her voice, or dancing, or sometimes both. Her father was always resistant to accept the meager coins the men would toss his little daughter's way. Only after some insistence would he collect them.

"I'm saving these so you can settle down, one day. These are my Christine savings." He would pat the pouch under his shirt, tucking his worn violin and bow under his arm. It was on one of those nights when they were asked to join a larger troupe of performers, some tumblers and jugglers. Her father, still reeling from the loss of Christine's mother and their little cottage on the coast, agreed to join them for a season. Christine, at first, held the hat as the others performed, a quiet little sweetheart that pulled at onlookers' heartstrings—and purse-strings. Soon, though, she would sing or dance along to her father's fiddle, out of the sheer desire to meet—nay, exceed—her audience's expectations of her. The little gasps and titters from the crowd bolstered her, and she had caught the performance bug for good.

Traveling led to larger performance groups poaching them whenever they intersected in the small towns and villages dotting the French countryside. By the time she was 12, they had joined half a dozen groups in that year. It was then they met their first proper circus.

She still had the scar on her wrist from when the pony, Kristoff, had bitten her. She had retaliated by leaping onto the horse's back, yanking back the bridle and racing him through the campground at break-neck speed. Her father's shock still made her stomach flip with guilt, but the man who ran the circus had nodded.

"A natural horsewoman," he had said to her father in his Germanized French. "I think we've found her act."

Now, at 18, Christine was tracing the old white teeth mark-shaped scar on her wrist. The bone underneath always tingled when it seemed like a storm was imminent and now was no different. Her hair crackled with the static electricity in the air—lightning was near. Inside the makeshift stable, an enormous canvas tent with hitching posts for the horses, she would be safe from the rain. Settling down to see if she could ride out the storm, she bit into one of the dozen apples she and Raya had collected. She leaned her elbows on her riding breeches, contorting her back and shoulder muscles to let them crack and stretch. Her body screamed in protest at the hard riding she had done today, and she knew she would feel it tomorrow.

"I think we did well, Raya," she said, examining the apple core for any remaining flesh. She stood, stretching long again, the men's shirt she had confiscated loosening from the waistband of her trousers. It was easier to ride like this, and no one was going to see her, she had argued to her father when she had started wearing the hand-me-down pants to the barn. She stepped through the hay-strewn dirt towards her partner in the discussion. "What do you think?"

Raya, an enormous grey mare, snorted in approval, accepting the apple core from Christine's outstretched palm. Christine traced her knuckles against her velvety snout, laying a kiss on her forehead. The low, rumbling thunder began to roll over the canvas roof of the tent, but Christine paid it no mind. Instead, she ducked under the lead rope securing Raya to the makeshift post and began to brush the dust from her thick coat. The weather was beginning to turn, and the wind whistled through the flaps of the tent. She shivered, though she would be safe inside here. Her horse started, reacting to the weather's shift.

"Shh," Christine coaxed, brushing in a rhythmic, circular motion. To the beat of her circles, she felt a song rise in her throat: an old folk song, something she had heard at one of the thousands of campfires she had attended.

“Onward to the ocean, going, going, River, little river, take my boat and me.”

It was silly, and short, but it made the work go quicker. Soon, she was making up her own little verses, about her horse and her.

"Raya to the orchard, going going, Pony, little pony, take my girl and me"

It was even sillier, but it seemed to calm her horse. The low tones of Christine's voice filled the air with something that wasn’t the sizzle of lightning or the crack of thunder. The other horses settled too, leaning on this leg or that, beginning to slumber. Christine was such a normal presence around them, they didn't even register her movement through the tent. She was glad they had joined this new troupe, almost a year ago; this circus had the resources to provide tents to perform under. In exchange for Christine caring for the circus’ horses, they sheltered the Daae horses instead of simply putting them out to graze for the night. How many nights had she lost sleep, before, sitting up and watching Raya when she heard the wolves howl in the thick forest around them? Now, at least, Raya was safe, and Christine could go rest in the tent she shared with her father; after all, even a rickety cot was more comfortable than a hay bale. 

The other horses snorted and she pulled a face. The largest, a white stallion called Cesar, whinnied indignantly that the storm would dare disturb his slumber. 

“Oh, you’re all right,” Christine reminded him. She reached into her pouch and rolled an apple towards his legs. He loved apples, almost as much as he loved trying to bite the fingers that held them. She would not make that mistake again, not until she had trained him out of that bad habit. Behind him, the sorrel mare stood, almost completely eclipsed by her stablemate. 

“Amber,” Christine chided the little red horse. “My father won’t like you having too many treats.” She gave her two apples for good measure. Her horses settled, Christine turned her mind to her bed. 

The tents were all very close together; she calculated the distance in her mind between the stable and her father's tent. She could run and not be exposed to the storm for long. It had been a waterlogged day of rain. She tossed another few apples in her pockets, wished the horses a peaceful night, and carried her oil lamp across the field as fast as her legs could take her. She had barely ducked into the tent before another crash of thunder cracked above her and the skies opened.

It was almost dawn when she heard it: the sound of panicked whinnying. She leaped up from the tiny cot, throwing the thin blanket off. As fast as she could manage without waking her sleeping father, she pulled on her boots. She grabbed the shotgun her father kept and crept out to investigate.

She was no stranger to the risks of keeping horses out in the wilderness. She had spent a summer touring with a circus in the Black Forest, where they had needed a constant watch over the camp from the ever-present threat of wolves. She had never needed to use the gun then, but her father had trained her how to aim, how to secure the butt of the rifle into her shoulder, how to brace for recoil.

As she crept through the wet grass, Christine knew the gun was loaded. She had just cleaned it herself that morning before her ride, needing something to occupy her time on the stormy day that brought few circus goers. She kept a finger poised over the trigger, aware of the faintest quivering in her hand. Adrenaline , she told herself. Normal, just your body doing its job, keeping you safe. She took a shaky breath and pressed her next silent step into the long grass.

She was about 50 yards from the tent; she could hear the horses stomping their hooves and getting restless. She hoped it was a stray dog, nothing too dangerous to her stallion's enormous hooves. It was this thought that comforted her as she approached the flap of the tent. Then, she heard it. The sound of someone shushing the animals. She could just make out what the man—for it was a man—was saying as he pathetically tried to placate the animal.

"Please, be quiet," the voice pleaded. "Please."

She would have laughed at his attempt to quell the herd—that is, if this man wasn't clearly trying to steal her horses. She pulled the butt of the gun into her shoulder, finger laying on the trigger.

"Freeze."

She hoped her voice sounded lower, hoped the person didn't immediately realize it was a tiny young woman threatening him. She was a sharp shot by now, and she wedged the gun firmer into her armpit as she pushed the barrel straight into the intruder's back. The figure froze from his attempt to untie Cesar, the white stallion. Christine had half a mind to leave the tent and let Cesar deal with the intruder. None but her could even get near Cesar with a saddle, let alone ride him, as this person was about to attempt. She nudged the barrel of the gun between the figure’s narrow shoulder blades, and he slowly straightened himself up.

Shit. He was tall—almost a full foot taller than her. Her stomach twisted, but she kept a firm grip on her gun. The horses remained restless, now awake, whinnying and snorting. Cesar seemed unnerved at this disruption and stomped his foot onto the hard dirt.

"Get away from my horses!" Christine barked, in what she hoped was an intimidating voice. He held his hands up in a sign of surrender but didn't turn. He said nothing.

"This is when you say, 'don't shoot.'" Christine prodded the gun into his back. “Let’s go.”

"Please," she heard him say. His voice was a hoarse, raspy whisper. "Let me go." He reached for Cesar's lead rope, already untied from the hitching post.

"No!" Despite her volume, she was shaking now. Would she have the strength to fire this gun, and risk deafening the horses and scaring them out of their hides? "Leave them be!"

She could see his shoulders rise and fall, as if sighing, before he turned, slowly, moving his head last to face her. It took all her willpower to not drop the gun and run.

She now understood why the horses were so restless. She stepped back, gun still pointed, but less confident. Yellow eyes reflected the low light of the tent. In the darkness, his black clothing was even more intimidating, blending into the night itself. From what she could see of his face, it seemed a skeleton's visage, a hole where his nose should have been. She sucked in a breath. Who was this man, and why was he trying to steal her horse?

Only a snort from the horses broke the spell as the two sized each other up. He reached out a hand, palm open and reaching past the gun to her, a wordless plea. The other still held Cesar's lead rope.

No , She thought to herself. Not tonight. Without turning, she took one more step backward, out of the tent. She fired the gun into the ai r and screamed, a blood-curdling sound that woke the camp. The noise of men pouring out of the tents sounded and she could hear their heavy footsteps on the wet earth, running to the stable. 

"Help!" She screamed, her voice high and clear.

Behind her, circus work hands rushed to her aid. Lumbering men appeared like dark shadows from their tents and camps, yelling for others to come to aid. In front of her, she watched the man plead for his life.

"No! You don't understand."

Emboldened by the help mere yards away, in a split second she had the shotgun trained on him again.  

"I think it is you who does not understand,” she warned, aiming the gun at his heart. "I'll thank you to let go of my horse now."

Chapter Text

Someone was watching her. 

The hair stood up on the back of Christine's neck. She had stopped outside the tiny caravan on the outskirts of the camp when the sensation had once again come over her. She pulled her jacket tighter around her and knocked at the little door again. 

It could not be the man that haunted her dreams - it just couldn’t. Since that night, she had taken to sleeping in her barn, to protect the horses. She hadn't seen the specter who had tried to take Cesar since that fateful night. She had looked, had asked around the camp. Some crossed themselves as she described his face, his horrifying, yellow eyes. She wondered if she had imagined it, but then she remembered that she had seen him be dragged away by the strongman and the ringleader. Yet when she asked the strongman about the skeletal man, he shrugged and said nothing.

Marguerite answered the door in one of her many silk robes; a collection of which she kept in her caravan.

"Come in, sweetie," she helped Christine across the threshold. The walls were papered with posters of her time performing: The Bearded Lady, the posters boasted; Witness The Buxom Beast! Come See the Bearded Beauty! The posters exaggerated her ginger facial hair, her comely expression. The real woman in front of her was kinder, less striking without her stage makeup. Marguerite kissed her cheek and Christine could smell the fresh rosewater from her bath on her skin. "Ready for the show tomorrow?"

Christine shrugged. "I’m sure it will be the same old - the town is pretty excited, though. I think the stands will be crowded."

She nodded. "Very dramatic," Marguerite said as she poured Christine a cup of tea from a mismatched set on her makeshift coffee table. "I think I made a kid faint today."

Christine laughed. " You ! But you aren't nearly as frightening as-" she stopped herself. She added a sugar cube to her teacup and settled back into the satin armchair. She took a breath and lowered her voice.  "Marguerite, can I ask you something?”

“Do you need permission? You’ll ask it regardless,” Marguerite winked from the worn divan. “Shoot.”

“Is there a...man in the freak show that I haven't met?"

Marguerite frowned, picking at a frayed thread from her robe. In the lamplight of the caravan, Christine found herself holding her breath, waiting for her answer.

"What do you mean?" Marguerite said finally. "I think you know everyone. Who is it?"

"Oh," Christine said, sipping the oolong tea. "Uhm, I've sort of been calling him a ghost. Or a skeleton. He has these odd yellow eyes."

Marguerite frowned again and busied herself with the tea, grabbing a spoon and putting it back down. Again she smoothed her robe, her eyes falling on Christine’s cup. "Are you alright? More tea? I might need to heat more water.” Her eyes flashed again. “Oh, let me get you that book you asked for."

Christine put out a hand to stop her from standing. "Please, Marguerite. He tried to steal my horses, and I haven't been able to sleep since. Who is he?" They stared at each other a moment, waiting to see who would flinch first. They both knew who would win the stubbornness battle. Christine clenched her jaw tight, staring back at her friend.

Marguerite sat back down, sighing. She held a finger to her temple. "Oh, dear. I don't know his name - I don't know if anyone does, to be honest. He came to us recently, with his mother – some kind of dancer, I think."

Christine swallowed. "Oh." So he was here. The room felt colder, somehow, and she wrapped her arms around herself. “How did I not see them?”

“It was only a couple of weeks ago,” Marguerite said. “They came in the night, only a few of us saw them come in around the back way. I barely got a glimpse of her, before…”

Marguerite trailed off.  Christine leaned forward. “Before what, Marguerite? What do you mean?”

She attempted to laugh at the girl’s intense expression, fidgeting again with the saucer and spoon. "Oh, your father would kill me…”

Christine put a reassuring hand on Marguerite’s wrist, in spite of the gnawing fear growing in her chest. "I'm not a little girl anymore, Marguerite. Please, tell me. Are my horses in danger?"

"There’s no telling,” she shook her head. "Something’s been wrong since they came, I felt it on the night they arrived.”

“Well,” Christine tilted her head. Marguerite’s tarot readings were infamously shoddy, and she loved to spin a yarn about her family history of clairvoyance. “I’m not sure about all that.”

“Well then why-” Marguerite started and paused. “No, I shouldn’t-” 

“Marguerite!” she exclaimed.

Marguerite pressed her lips together. She sighed again. “Well…the day after they arrived, his mother disappeared."

Christine felt her mouth go dry.

"He said he didn't do it but - oh, don’t worry, they keep him locked up, now, so we aren't in any danger."

"But he tried to steal my horses! I saw him, Marguerite, up close! He must have escaped."

"I don't see how, my dear," Marguerite said, trying to comfort her. She lay a reassuring hand on Christine's back. "You should see the chains they have on him."

Christine could still imagine the haunted yellow eyes staring back at her. "Where is he now?"

"Still there," Marguerite said. "They don't let him out, not after what he did."

Christine thanked Marguerite for the tea and changed the subject, her stomach rolling. The realization that she had pointed a gun, a gun she could barely lift, against a cold-blooded killer – of his mother, no less. The tea sat uneasily in her gut as she tried to smile and nod as Marguerite recommended the novel to her. How close had she come to falling victim to the killer herself? She tucked her feet under her on the chair and tried to put it out of her mind.

When she returned to her tent later that night, she found herself running across the clearing between Marguerite’s caravan and her father’s tent, like she was a girl again, afraid of the dark.

Over the next few days, Christine felt herself looking over her shoulder, always waiting for the hollow face of her tormentor to return. She watched at the canteen at mealtimes, keeping an eye out for the man who tried to steal her horses.

When it began to be apparent that that man did not participate in the circus as the rest of them did, that he didn't appear at usual mealtimes, or perform in the nighttime shows, Christine found her fear turn to indignant rage. How dare he try to take her horses? What, did he think he could just waltz in? What if he had taken Cesar, the enormous stallion? The horse could barely seat her, let alone a tall stranger? She entertained this fantasy of the man being kicked a mile from camp by her demonic horse and laughed.

She was interrupted from her daydream by the sound of her father calling for her. She felt the back of her neck tense, ready for yet another interrogation.

"Christine!" Gustave Daae grabbed for her arm, and she side-stepped the gesture. "Where have you been?"

She rolled her eyes. What used to be a kind question now felt suffocating. Her father loved keeping tabs on her. Today, when she had much to prepare for tonight's performance, it seemed overbearing.

"I've been practicing," she said, holding back an eye roll. It was true; she and Raya were working on a new way for Christine to somersault on her back.

Gustave sighed. "You know you need to be careful. Why don't you practice when I can watch, to spot you if you fall?"

Because then you would put a stop to any of the good tricks, Christine answered in her head. She smiled. "Papa, I know you're busy with your music. I wouldn't want to take you away from that. Besides, Raya and I are fine on our own." She put a reassuring hand to her father as if to affirm this point. He gave a soft smile under his beard.

"I know, I just want to make sure you're careful. You are more precious to me than any applause you might get from your daring tricks."

Christine squeezed his arm in her hand, her heart flipping. She nodded at the sentiment, but she couldn't help but wonder: if it came down to it, would her love for her father supersede her love of the crowd? It scared her that the answer wasn't obvious.

"I have to go practice," Christine said, avoiding the question. She needed to make her way to the stable and Gustave needed to return to the other band members of the circus "orchestra." She knew this job was a Godsend for them – very few opportunities existed for a fiddle player and his precocious daughter. They needed this, and he needed her to be safe.

“Stay safe,” Gustave reminded her, echoing the constant refrain of Christine’s late mother. Christine dashed off without a word, knowing her father’s eyes would be on her until she rounded the bend towards the stables.

Christine made it to the stables, excited to leave the watchful eye of the other performers and have time to her thoughts. She kissed Raya's dappled nose and gave Cesar a stern slap on the neck before kissing his nose too. He gave an indignant snort.

"Oh, you stop," she warned, refilling their troughs with water she had brought from the nearby stream. She stretched her arms over her head before untying Raya. She led her horse to the makeshift paddock - in reality, just a few hay bales roughly measured to the size of the arena. She lifted the heavy leather saddle onto her grey mare's back, securing it with a practiced hand before leaping onto her back. Raya gave a huff of disapproval.

"You're so dramatic," she laughed, patting her neck. The horse could barely feel the weight on her back. She tapped the horse's side with her heels and set her off in a light trot, then a canter, warming up the horse and letting her stretch her legs in the arena. Christine could feel her heart hammering in her head, pounding with adrenaline as she moved her feet out of the stirrups. Slowly, as the horse cantered in a circle, she moved the soles of her feet to the leather of the saddle, crouching.

"Ok, girl, let's try it," she whispered, more to herself than the horse. It would be her hurt if she fell; the horse would just do what she asked, with little consideration for the rider. Christine liked the control, the risk of trick riding; if she fell, it was her fault and hers alone. She had met people who blamed the horses for mistakes: those people rarely made the best riders and spent most of their time on the ground. No, the people who understood horses and how they operated in tandem with their riders: that was who she listened to. Those were the performers who were truly great.

She felt the rhythm of the horse's canter in her hands as she planted them on the leather of the saddle. She lifted herself into a handstand, her legs stretching up to the sky. Her arms were already beginning to shake, and she measured two more beats of the horse’s hooves before she pushed herself into a somersault. At that moment, Raya's footing shifted left to round the corner, and Christine felt her legs fall back into the saddle, hitting the saddle with her seat hard enough to knock the wind out of her. Huff.

"Shit!" she swore. Her fault. She grabbed at Raya's bridle to pull the horse up to a stop. Maybe her father was right, maybe she needed a second pair of eyes. No , she shook the thought from her head. She had been alone in the circus act since she was 8, and she didn't need help now. She kicked Raya harder than was necessary and they leaped out of the makeshift arena.

The pair left the circus grounds and galloped hard for miles, following the stream that ran along the camp, until Christine's thoughts cleared away the crushing voice that screamed " failure !" and her hands stopped shaking holding the reins. Christine's muscles moved with the horse under her like it was an extension of her own body, and she gave herself over to the sensation of going fast: too fast to be safe.

Above her, the birds raced along above them, the sky clear and blue and open. Beneath her, the grass blurred into greens and yellows, the individual blades invisible at the speed they were going.

I can do this.

I can do this.

I am not a failure.

Only when the adrenaline wore off did she bring her horse back to a trot.

She let Raya graze on the rich grass of the meadow that they had come to. The cicadas in the trees buzzed around them, the trees laden with thick, green leaves. Christine wiped the back of her hand against her forehead; it was nice to finally work up a sweat. It was harder these days, she found, for her to get excited, to be riled up. Every day was the same routine, and even her tricks were boring her. That was why she was practicing a flip she knew was dangerous - anything to excite her, to challenge her. Maybe, she thought, if she could do something death-defying, she would feel the rush she rarely got anymore. The last time she had felt a pure adrenaline rush like that was when she was holding that horse thief at gunpoint. She shivered and closed her eyes, the swell of cicadas filling her ears until she felt like she could scream.

The circus erupted with the sound of the crank organ player, the laughter of children twinkling over the dusty animal stalls and into the various attractions. It was inside one such attraction that one person sat, waiting and watching.

There was a time when children's laughter was pleasant to him, he was sure. When that was, he couldn't say. There was a much longer span of his life, years even, when the laughter of children was grating, like a knife to his keenly attuned ears. Now, he barely heard it. Instead, the blood pumped into his head. His methodical mind dulled the sensations of the outside world. It was a good thing, too; those children laughing were certainly laughing at him, and pointing, and staring very close to the bars of the cage. Any other week, and he would have lunged at them, give them a nightmare to scar their sleepless nights. This week, the children were emboldened to come close to the morose figure in the corner of the cage, his dark hair pushed back to reveal the reason they were here: the spectacle of his twisted face.

He had long made peace with the fact that he was a creature, not a man; that he was a subject to be mocked. What he wasn't used to was being bested, let alone by some small girl with a big gun. He had replayed the events of that night over and over again, replaying where he had made a mistake.

Obviously, stealing the horses was a smart plan. No, the mistake was with the girl, was in allowing her to fire a warning shot, to call attention to his crime. That was his mistake; he had forgotten that most people were not to be trusted; that at their core, people were cruel and selfish.

Since that mistake, he had been trapped in purgatory, this cage in the Freak Show tent. He had spent the days in the dim dust of the tent doing what he did best: plotting. Today, he had decided. That night, after the show, he was ready.

He was going to kill the girl who had the audacity to ruin his plan.

Chapter Text

Christine rushed into the stable, already running late. She threw closed the tent flaps and unfastened her trousers. She pulled the rigid bodice of her costume on, lacing the back with a hand as the horses snorted. They were cyclical animals, and it seemed even they knew Christine was running behind. She had spent too long in the meadow, too long picking fruit and trying to reconsider her existence here. Now, she was going to miss her entrance.

She pulled on the shiny silver boots, tightening the grey laces. She could feel Raya's mouth on her frizzy brown curls, could feel the horse knocking the headband decorated with silver stars off her head.

"Stop! I know, I know I'm late," she reprimanded the horse. She untied Cesar and whistled, leading him by lead rope towards the back entrance from Raya’s back.

She trotted a little faster than she normally would to the entrance, dismounting in a flurry of glittering tulle. Christine straightened her tiara and took a deep breath in through her nose.

On the first breath, she smelled horse, hay, popcorn, and manure. Circus smells. She closed her eyes.

Second breath, her ears picked up the low rumble of the crowd, the grunts of horses, and then...there it was. The bated breath of the audience. It was like a bolt of electricity in her veins, and soon it would all be for her. Her hands tingled at the idea. This was the rush she had been missing.

The roaring blaze of the fire-eater could be heard in the distance. The crowd broke their collective, held breath into thunderous applause. She gave Raya a kiss for luck and leaped onto her back.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the illustrious, the magnificent, Christine Daae and her Wonder Horses!"

Under the bleachers, another spectator prepared his own performance.

Escaping was easy; it was a simple task to steal a brooch from a woman who passed too close. It was a small matter to bend the wire into the keyhole and open the padlock that trapped him in his cage. Nor was it difficult to procure the rope; he tied it in the sturdy slipknot that would allow him to slide the cord around the neck of his target and tighten it. It was this rope that he held in his calloused hands under the bleachers of the main event of the circus.

He heard the hooves. The announcement of her name. Christine. He hated it, hated the way the consonants slid into each other to give a name to the person he resented most. He peered between the feet of the spectators. The crowd roared. The bile in his stomach churned; when was the last time he had heard genuine applause, appreciative sounds from an audience, instead of laughter and sneers? And here the girl was, absorbing it all as she rode into the ring with the terrifying white stallion he had tried to steal only a few days before.

He hated her. And he envied her.

There was no use plotting; he had seen her enter the arena and would have to wait until the end of her performance. Now, he had no choice but to watch through the legs of the crowd the girl who had so selfishly ruined his only chance of escape, of finding answers. He felt his hand clench over the rope.

The pair of yellow eyes watched as Christine rode into the ring, perched atop the grey horse she seemed to love best. Riding side-saddle in skirts that would be scandalous anywhere outside of a circus, she glittered in a blue bodice that faded into a deep pink in the piles of tulle skirts. In the light of the ring, she glistened, the bodice decorated with glimmering glass beads and silver stars. She adjusted the wire tiara – it was a bit uneven on one side, but she was so far away he could barely make out the tiny stars forming a halo around her head. She was a sunset, a more glamorous version of the night sky above her and she adjusted her skirts as if she knew people were scrutinizing her every movement already. So she had done this before, the man noted.

The ringmaster introduced the horses. The grey mare she rode on was, apparently, named Raya. The white stallion, Cesar, snorted and pounded the ground in Christine's direction, her little baton directing the horses around the ring to the ooh's and aah's of the crowd. Erik couldn't help but let out a little snort of dark laughter at the ridiculous routine, at seeing the mighty stallion reduced to silly tricks, warming up the crowd. He stifled his laugh when he heard a child in the bleachers above say that he thought he heard something under his seat. He moved on, trying to get a closer look between the slats of the wooden bleachers.

Shining brightly in the light of the arena, Christine was magnetic as she directed Cesar into various poses from her seat on Raya. Cesar and Raya reared as if almost touching, to the exclamations of the crowd. The ringmaster led the audience.

"Now, Christine, let's see what these horses can do!"

Erik could feel the energy around him shift, could hear the groaning of bleachers as people leaned forward to see the real stunts. Christine tapped Raya into a trot, beginning to move from the prim side-saddle she had been seated in before to a new position. Erik let out a low gasp as she leaned forward in the saddle, pulling herself into a headstand. He felt his jaw clench at her already-short skirts threatening to reveal even more of her pink tights as she twisted herself upside-down, backward, contorting herself. Someone wolf-whistled, and Christine's smile didn't break as she herself whistled- to Cesar, who began to canter alongside Raya. She flipped herself fully upright, her boots stepping on the saddle. She took a step, and she was standing on two horses at once as they spun around the ring at a speed that made one onlooker in Erik's earshot let out a low curse.

At the next go-around, a stagehand pulled Cesar off to the side and Christine and Raya rode around the ring alone. Christine still stood on the saddle, holding her arms out. She was basking in the applause, Erik realized, and he felt a twinge. He again remembered, not too long ago, when he had felt the same thrill in performing. If he closed his eyes, he could still remember inventing new and exquisite illusions for audiences who didn't take a second look at his mask: the magic was too distracting. He missed it, the sheer power of performance, yet he couldn't dwell long: a new magician in the center of the arena, Christine, was in charge now. His envy made it easy to return to the simmering rage of the past week, and he clenched his jaw, a permanent frown on his contorted face in the shadows of the bleachers. Somewhere, a snare drum rolled as she slowly lowered herself horizontally on the horse, perfectly parallel to the saddle, her shimmering boots hovering over the back of the horse.

The crowd's screams cut through Erik and he froze. Christine's thick chestnut curls fell forward, her little figure hurtling, headfirst, to the earth as the horse cantered around the ring. At the last minute, her head hovered above the dust, and everyone breathed a gasp. Relishing the moment as she rode upside down, holding onto the stirrup of the saddle, her feet high above her, Christine gave a little wave to the audience, which resulted in a rush of "oohs" from them. People whooped and hollered, children screamed, and she look a little bow from her perch before twisting herself back up and returning to a seated position on Raya. She lead the horses out of the ring to the raucous applause, and the show continued with the acrobats.

Erik followed the sound of pounding hooves, staying close to the shadows as he watched Christine whistle and yell at the two horses to get them back in the tent. It shocked him to see her go from the shining, beautiful performer beaming a huge grin to the stern mother to these enormous, bumbling beasts. She talked to them like children, chiding them to get back into the tent in one piece, pulling at the long mane of another, slapping one on its huge rump to urge it forward. She turned, looking around, as if she sensed someone watching. She paused only a moment before dismounting and hitching her horses to a nearby post and ducking inside the stable tent.

He swallowed, the saliva leaving his mouth as the adrenaline kicked in. It had been so long since he had done something so crude, in cold blood like this; but then he remembered the hot indignation of feeling a gun in between his shoulder blades, and he reached for the cord in his pocket. He could hear the crowd cheering for the acrobats in the arena beyond. He was close enough to hear the animal’s teeth ripping the long grass around the tent stakes. Raya, the grey horse, gave a little stir as he slid between the animal and the red and white stripes of one of the tents. To his surprise, he heard yelling.

"I don't want to hear it, Christine!" It was a man's voice, deep and raspy. Erik froze, crouched low against the canvas. He hadn't expected company - everyone else was still inside at the performance. The man was continuing his rant. 

"I told you, that trick is too dangerous! What if the leather had snapped? I would be scraping you off the dirt of the arena."

"But Papa!" He could hear the girl's voice. It wasn't as quiet and shaky as when she had threatened him; she was dishing it right back to the man, her father. Erik prayed the conversation ended quickly. He didn't want to calculate the risk of attacking two people simultaneously: he had taken on more people before, but he didn't want the girl to have time to scream again, or for the father to try to fight him off. Too messy. Too uncertain.

He eyed the grey mare. She was still saddled. Maybe he could find it in the empty pit where his soul was supposed to be to forgive the girl and simply steal her horse instead. He was weighing this option when the girl and her father emerged, stilling his thoughts.

"Papa, did you hear them? Did you watch?" Her voice had grown soft, marveling at some imaginary scene. "The way they cheered, the shock, the surprise? No one else got that reaction. Tonight, I was special."

What was this? Erik felt his heart speed up. He could picture it, of course; it was the same way he felt, performing. The adoration of the crowd was a potent drug, and he craved it in his veins. He could hear her own yearning for another hit, to increase the dosage. He sighed, and the grey horse snorted, seeming to notice the black figure in the shadows.

This disturbed the argument around the corner of the tent, and Erik froze as Christine whipped around the corner, leaping easily onto the horse's back, though it appeared at first glance to be far too high a jump for the small girl. Her father stalked after her.

"This conversation isn't over young lady!" he called as she kicked the horse hard, racing away and past the fairground into the trees. Before her father could see, Erik slid under the bottom of the tent and disappeared.

He fumed back in his temporary cell. He knew he could unlock it at any time, but he still knew keeping up the appearance of being locked up was best for his plan. He flicked the broken pin into the lock and opened the rusted door of the cage. Everything was exactly how he left it: the tiny stool that made his back ache; the shackles he unfastened immediately, only placing them back on his thin wrists when the owners came around. It was humiliating; he counted the days until he could be rid of the whole wretched business.

But yet again, he had failed. Again, his mind corrected, the reprimand a high-pitched whine that made his muscles tense in his shoulders. He attempted to sit in the straw and shavings of the cold concrete, stretching his legs as far as they would manage in the tiny space.

How dare the girl evade him again! This should have been easier, simple retribution for her meddling in his affairs. He steeled himself from the pang of empathy he had felt, crouched against the tent. Instead, he turned to rage. How dare she act so impudent in that conversation with her father? So disrespectful. How entitled she was as if she deserved all the praise. It was a few parlor tricks with animals; she was no better than the beasts themselves.

It was these thoughts that settled him into a brief, fitful slumber.

Erik awoke to the sound of sawing wood, and his stomach churned.

"No!" he said aloud, stirring awake in the early dawn. No no no, he thought as he opened his eyes to the glaring sunlight. Too much sunlight for a tent.

The canvas of the freak show tent was being methodically peeled away above him to reveal the rising sun. His stomach curdled and he stood at the bars.

"What are you doing?" he barked at the nearest workman. Joseph Buquet, from his perch on the tent frame, laughed his usual, cruel laugh.

"Wouldn't you like to know," he retorted. "We're moving on early this month. Calais."

Erik's eyes pinched tight for a minute. How could he have lost sight of his goals so easily? He was stupid to let the girl - and her horse- escape the previous night. "But you can't!" He shouted up to the man. Everything was out of control, his grand plans falling away like the huge sheets of canvas above him.

"Boss's orders," Buquet retorted. "Don't worry princess, we'll let you out after everything's packed up."

In the hubbub of packing, it would be easy to slip away, unnoticed. He did the math in his head; Calais - a few days ride away. Too many days, in his opinion. Too far. He sat back in his cell and did the only thing he could do: think.

Christine opened her eyes to the sounds of packing up.

She groaned. "Five more minutes," she said. Traveling was second nature to her, but the act of packing up dozens of people and the horses and the tents was agonizing. She grunted a good morning to the horses, glad to see them all in one place, and returned to her father’s tent.

When she arrived at the little green canvas tent, it was empty; her father’s cot empty and carefully made, as he always left it when he rose at dawn. She sighed, packing up her few belongings: her mother's hairbrush, her two dresses, a spare pair of trousers, the book Marguerite had lent her. All went into her bag. She folded her cot and her father's. She would have to wait for his help to pack up the tent, and so she headed out to prepare the horses.

Everyone was outside today, in full force. The men were already stripped to the waist in the already sweltering day, hauling the beams of the tent down, rolling the canvas. She stepped into the stable tent and began to immediately scoop extra oats for her herd. Today, the rest of the horses would be responsible for pulling some of the larger carts and for hauling the beams of the tent to the next location. She gave Cesar a reassuring pat.

"Big day, sir," she cooed. Cesar gave an indignant snort.

Her chores completed, she left the horses to find her own sustenance.

"No, no way," Reyer, the ringmaster, was arguing. The tall, sharp-dressed man had a finger in the chest of Mr. Firmin, the circus' new owner. Christine eyed the argument the same as the others, who seemed to all cease working.

"Look, we need the help. What harm can it do?" The paunchy man shrugged back. Behind them, she could see her father, drenched in sweat, a rope on his shoulder, alongside the strong man. They needed to pull the beams onto the cart that would haul them, with the help of the horses. Reyer stared for a moment more, challenging Mr. Firmin, before he threw up his hands.

"It's your funeral."

Christine watched with bated breath alongside the rest of the circus. From her trailer, Marguerite watched, still in her robe. Christine could have sworn she saw Piangi, the strong man, gulp, and her hair stood up on end. Firmin ducked into what was remaining up of the freak show tent, and Christine's subconscious caught up before she did.

"No," she whispered, and she felt the word race along the silent, crackling air to the ears of the figure being led from the tent. There was no way the man from her nightmares could have heard her; she was at least 50 yards away. Nevertheless, his yellow eyes flashed to hers. She stared back in fear. To her surprise, he returned the gaze with the deepest hatred she had ever seen in a person. He did not struggle against his ropes holding his wrists together. His lips - or what was left of them - curled into a sneer before he was led to the back of the line of men hauling the heavy ropes to bring down the freak show tent. He was mere feet from her father.

Firmin clapped his hands. "Alright, back to work," he cheered, supervising the work from behind the men. His words broke the spell, though the energy did not return to its usual buzzing chatter.

Christine ducked back into the tent, her heart racing.

So he was here. He was here, and he was dangerous. Marguerite's story flooded back to her head. The fact that she was still alive, so close to a killer, was nothing short of a miracle. Her mind raced to her father; was he safe, where he worked? Were any of them? She shivered, pushing the thought from her mind. All she could do now was to secure her horses and stay far from the devil on the end of that rope.

By the afternoon, the only trace of their presence in the little village was the dirt circle where the arena had once been. Everything else had been loaded up, packed away on the carriages, carts, and trailers in the huge caravan on its way to Calais. It was a three days ride, and Christine was grateful she and her father were able to ride the way there, rather than walk: she was on Raya, and her father on the docile sorrel mare, Amber. The other horses were put to work, lugging the large beams of the tent to its next location. Christine rode up ahead, wearing her father's old leather hat to shield her face from the hot summer sun. She checked on the horses periodically, making sure Cesar wasn't doing most of the grunt work, making sure everyone's legs were in working order. Her heart twisted every time they were out of her immediate care.

The rest of the company either rode in the wagons, like the acrobat girls; or walked for those physically able. Marguerite and her friends were tucked safely away in her caravan pulled by two little ponies, and Christine wished, as she often did, that her friend was out in the sun, if not for the company. Her father kept his distance. They still hadn't spoken since their argument the previous night.

Erik chafed under the thick cord of rope tying his hands together. He had mentally untied the knot over and over again, run through various scenarios. Piangi was guarding him; disarming him would be easy. They shouldn't have chosen a rope for his restraints; it could too easily be a weapon. He walked next to the cart, sandwiched between that and his guard. He could feel the sweat forming on his back, the sun beginning to burn the tender skin around his covered face, his exposed neck above the collar of his thin shirt. He glowered up at the girl on the horse, her wide-brimmed hat allowing her to bask in the sunlight instead of shunning it. He made a noise of disapproval.

He eyed the man riding next to Christine; her father. She looked ahead as though she wished nothing more than to flee this whole journey. She shifted in her seat and her gaze kept darting to the horizon. What would she know about needing escape? He scowled. Her father rode his horse only a few feet from her own, pinning her between himself and one of the other carts, not unlike his own current situation. Erik remembered the real reason why, at the first opportunity, he hadn't simply untied the rope and fled: Gustave Daae wasn't the only one with a shotgun strapped to his back. There were two others in Erik's vicinity; more would follow if he dove into the woods. It was this image, of taking a bullet between the shoulder blades, that kept him moving obediently forward. He leveled another glare at the girl's back, for good measure. The anger was keeping him upright on this treacherously long walk.

"Looks like you've got an admirer," Erik heard from behind. Joseph Buquet walked up, casual as you please, eating an apple as if this was an afternoon constitutional rather than a three-day hard ride. Erik reddened, and the girl whipped around. To Erik's surprise, Buquet motioned at him! "Been staring at you for a mile now," Buquet remarked, examining the apple core in his hands.

Gustave put his hand out as if to turn his daughter back around in her saddle, but she wasn't listening. In a sharp, bitter voice she said, "Joseph Buquet, hold your tongue!"

Her brown eyes slid to Erik's and he didn't look away. Neither did she. Her glare nearly leveled him to the ground, and he suddenly had the sensation he was standing there, maskless and naked. He breathed in sharply to recover and returned the stare with a similar ire. He wasn't about to be intimidated by a little girl on a horse.

"Got a crush?" Buquet mocked Erik, breaking the tension between them.

His eyes flashed for a moment. "She's nothing to me," he said, his voice low and menacing. Did he imagine her glare turning to hurt? It couldn't have, because she made a "huff" from her mouth and galloped away, to the chagrin of her father. Erik scowled and returned to the fantasy where he untied the rope and secured it around Joseph Buquet's fat neck.

Christine rode hard for miles until the caravan was a mere suggestion on the horizon behind her. Ahead of her, a stream cut off her path and she was forced to stop. She didn't wait for Raya to halt before dismounting, dropping the reins to kneel in the damp earth. She didn't know why she was crying, but they were thick, frustrated tears. Why was everything so suffocating? The circus, her father, the oppressive gaze of the young man who tried to steal her horse. Why couldn't she move freely for a moment? She replayed the interaction with her father earlier that day; the way he reprimanded her to return to the caravan, to stay with the group. That there were bandits and robbers in the woods or animals that would hurt her horse and herself. She splashed more icy stream water over her face and neck, the dust of the day's hard ride trickling off her skin.

For a moment, she considered the road ahead: open, clear. She wouldn't have to go to Calais, she could start over. Go to a place where her father could not tell her what to do, or where to go. Raya snorted and grazed, and Christine reached out to pat her neck. The cross around her neck danced against her collarbone, and a hand went automatically to it. Her mother, or at least the fantasy of her, the memory half-fabricated, reminded her. You were born to perform, she had said. Christine gripped the necklace as if to tear it from her and throw it into the mud. Instead, she released her grasp. 

No, she would have to go back. If not for her father's overbearing rules, for herself.

Chapter Text

Erik scowled and settled in for the night. The distant campfire glowed that same, horrible yellow he recognized in his own eyes.

He had not watched the infuriating girl, no – but he had noticed the marked difference between Christine before and after she had stormed off. She seemed less irate, yet still skittish, not unlike her horses. He had tried his best to avoid her as much as he could, and he was happy to see her do the same. 

When they made camp for the evening, he was directed to his resting place under the pines, under the watchful eye of Piangi. Erik had hoped that trying to attract attention from the acrobat girls would distract Piangi from his charge, but, to his chagrin, the man remained steadfast and sober in his surveillance. He sat so his hands, bound behind his back, did not feel pinched against the tree and waited for the boredom to put him to sleep. 

On the other side of the fire, Christine crept out of the tent she and her father shared. She had not watched the horrible boy, no – but she knew Piangi watched him on the other edge of the campsite, knew he was resting too close to her horses. 

Somewhere, by the fire, her father drank whiskey with the other musicians, anything to ease the sting of their last conversation. She hated these all-too-frequent talks and thus could see them coming a mile away. She could not have avoided the one over dinner that evening. 

“I have been a poor father,” he apologized. 

“Papa, don’t,” she tried to stop the diatribe before it began, but she could not.  

“I took your childhood from you, and for that I am sorry,” he continued. “Life on the road is no place-”

Christine knew her part well. She put her hand on his shoulder in the dim glow of the lantern light. “Papa, I am fine. I am perfectly happy.” 

“How can you say that when you haven’t slept in days, my dear? You are exhausted.” He directed his gaze to her face, no doubt seeing the bags under her eyes, her tired expression that she herself had noticed too often these days. 

She could not say that, in fact, her restlessness had little to do with their travel and much more to do with the horrible man who haunted her nightmares. Telling him about that terrible night would only worry him further, or worse: he would take her away from the circus completely.

She looked back at her father: formerly perfect posture now permanently bent over from a life on the road. She could not remember when his brown beard and hair were not heavily flecked with gray. His weary eyes met hers and she saw her own exhaustion in his anguished brown eyes. “You too are tired, Papa. Are you not sleeping either?”  

“It is difficult to sleep when I worry. Those tricks-”

She sighed. “I’m fine.” 

“You are young, you know nothing,” he reminded her. “If we had stayed in Perros, you could have been at school, or married –” 

She rolled her eyes. “Perros is as no more a home to me as any of the places we have stayed.” She had been a girl when they left, returning only intermittently when work was scarce. She remembered cold nights and silence, the town a sharp, harsh contrast to the vibrant community of the circus. Why her father would wish to return to that was beyond her.

“But you would be safe, Christine. Don’t you care about that? Is life all risk-taking to you?” 

She couldn’t hear this again, not with her frayed nerves, and would soon say something she regretted. She stood, her dinner forgotten. “Goodnight, Papa,” she interrupted and stalked away.

Her father’s threats, Marguerite’s stories, and the memory of the ghost in the shadows, crouching too close to her horses, meant she could not rest. She picked up the shotgun nestled next to her father’s things and headed to where her horses were hitched for the night.

At the tree between her and where her horses grazed, a pair of yellow eyes stared back at her. She reached for the gun on her back.

"Relax, princess," she heard a low voice growl. 

She stiffened. "Why are you out here?" she asked. They were well away from the fire, where she could hear the last few members of the group still awake, drunkenly singing. Everyone respectable had gone to bed. 

"I didn't have much choice as to a tent," he shrugged, an awkward gesture, his hands bound behind his back. In the low residual light from the fire, she could see the rope binding his feet as well. "At least I’ve got company." 

Piangi gave a noncommittal grunt. Why did they have to be so close to the horses? She gritted her teeth. Soon, she knew, either the whiskey or women would lead Piangi from his post. She sat against the tree across from him, forming a triangle with the strongman and his prisoner. She propped the gun up next to her and positioned herself so she could still see her horses.  

"You don't have to -" he began. She stuck her chin in the air and ignored him. She heard him let out a world-weary sigh. "Fine. Be my guest."

She leaned back into the gnarled tree, her bottom already beginning to go numb on the cold ground. Her stubbornness was the only thing keeping her awake as she settled for the night across from the menacing eyes.

Erik watched the girl warily, from his place on the ground. He waited for her to fall asleep, for a lapse in her judgment. When Piangi finally was led away by Marguerite, his heart leaped. One down, one to go. But Christine Daae didn't budge, and in the dying glow of the campfire he could see her big brown eyes locked on his in anger.

Finally, his impatience couldn't help it. "You should sleep," he commented. The mere suggestion of sleep could be a powerful thing, and he planted the seed as casually as he could muster.

He had certainly not noticed the way the shadows under her eyes seemed even more pronounced in the moonlight, nor did he wonder when last she slept. Could she be as tired as he was, these days? Almost certainly not; more than likely the girl slept well in her comfortable bed every night, her belly full, under the watchful eye of her doting father. His stomach turned. What did she know of exhaustion?

The camp was dead asleep, the sounds of breathing and grunts the only evidence that dozens of people were camped around them. Even some of the horses snored where they stood. 

She didn’t answer for so long he thought, for a moment, that she actually had fallen asleep until he heard her voice, cold as the chill seeping through to his bones on the hard ground. "I'm fine." 

He smoothed his voice out, liquid in the night. He knew what it could do, especially in the advantage of the dark, to melt her cold exterior. "You should rest. It's another long day tomorrow."  

"And let you take my gun and my horse? I think not," he heard her snort. 

He sighed, imperceptibly. "Why did you run off, earlier?" It was a genuine question, and would serve to find at least one piece of an infuriatingly difficult puzzle of a girl. Again, silence. He gathered what scraps of manners he had seen others use. "Christine, right?" He scavenged for information, anything that could help him get away.  

"Don't talk to me," she said, voice sharp.

"I'm just asking."

"I don't talk to murderers," she said. It was not a question, not an accusation. A fact.

“Erik.”

“What?”

“My name. And I’m not—" Ah. What use was his voice, what use was trying to make her trust him, when the rumors had already reached her ear. She had already made up her mind, had already imagined countless horrible things about him, assumed the worst. What little camaraderie he had felt for the girl evaporated to righteous anger. "Forget it." 

They sat in an uneasy silence for a long while, the only sound the crickets calling to each other in the trees, a sad, plaintive minor key. She did not move, not even to stretch, and neither did he, both of them in a stubborn standoff as to who could be more stoic. Finally, he decided that if she wasn't going to sleep, he would. He took one last look at the glaring girl and fell into an uneasy slumber.

The sun rose over the caravan on the second day, beating down on the beating down on horses, riders and the rest of the travelling company alike.. It was all Christine could do not to fall asleep as Raya plodded along the line of carts and walkers. She noticed the man, Erik, staring at her. Was he laughing? She frowned and kicked her horse ahead, away from his smirk. It was his fault she hadn’t slept!  She was sure he had been trying to lull her into letting her guard down. Wouldn't he just love to take advantage of the sleeping camp, a few knots of rope around his wrists and ankles the only thing between him and stealing her horses? She shook her head to clear it. 

The next night was no different, except Piangi found the whiskey earlier. Christine noticed he nodded to her as he stepped away yet again, back to the fire and women, taking advantage of her self-appointed sentry duty. She scowled, staring at the figure seated across from her, wrists bound and held behind him.  

Yet again, his silken voice crept across the shallow divide between them. She attempted to ignore him.

"How long have you been here?" he asked. She clenched her jaw and did not respond. He continued as though he had not noticed her stoicism."My mother and I...just arrived."  

She suppressed a hiss. How could he bring up the woman he had so recently... dispatched, so easily? Her stomach twisted.  

Christine had met dozens of men like Erik on the road. Men with the gift of gab, men who could trick you out of your last penny with the lure of doubling it on a horse race, or a flip of a coin, or a hypothetical test of strength. She had long learned to steer clear of them, knowing they would use any detail about you against you, to con you. She swallowed, her mouth dry. She wished she had eaten more for dinner, had some cold water in her canteen – anything to keep her awake. 

Erik saw the slope of her shoulders change, the way she looked away from him. Still nervous, then. He continued. "We came from our village, Rouen, to join the traveling shows," he offered. He had seen how personal details had a positive effect on people, and that it often evoked a sharing, in kind, from the other person. 

Christine sat, silent and frowning.

Erik soon gave up and leaned back against the earth, staring at the night sky. They had walked another 50 miles that day, and his legs ached. Another 50 miles farther from where they began.

Above the pine boughs twinkled the stars, constellations forming in his mind’s eye, a compass, stories. Nighttime meant safety; the end of a day of fighting. It meant stargazing. His mother had, from time to time, allowed— 

His musing was interrupted by soft snoring. Piangi was long gone; Erik froze when he understood the source of the noise. Christine. The damned girl was finally asleep! He paused, planning his next movements. He moved his thin wrists from the rope restraint. The ropes were no challenge, they never were. Playing a role, the part of the captive until it no longer served him. Now his adversaries slept, and he could finally get out of this God forsaken place with these small-minded fools that looked at him like he was a monster.

Silent as a cat, he pulled himself up to a crouching position. He slid across the short distance between them, moving through the underbrush without a sound. The gun, surely, first. Then, the horse. If he worked efficiently, he wouldn't even need to kill her. It would be easier that way, would garner less attention. With any luck, he could flee without incident. 

He held his breath as he reached for the shotgun cradled in the girl's arms. Soon, he would be on his way. Did he want the stallion? Perhaps not. The grey mare seemed quickest; that must be why the girl favored her—

Before his thought finished, Christine's eyes flashed open. Erik felt the blow of a boot firmly in the soft flesh between his legs plunging him to the ground in agony. His sight fluttered with white spots, the pain in the pit of his stomach silenced him. Before he could recover, he felt the boot plant itself on his chest, the full weight of the girl pushing him to the ground, the shotgun’s double barrel against his face. 

"Move and I'll shoot."

Gasping and enraged, Erik decided to take those odds. He could put her off balance, he could still win. He lurched from where he lay, and the gunshot exploded, sending him into a horrible, ringing darkness.

He could not see. Oh God, he could not see. He could not hear, either, his mind searing with a terrible, high-pitched ringing. A ringing, and then, in the far distance, voices.   

"Christine, Christine, are you alright?"

"Bastard!"

"Where's Piangi? Goddammit man, fetch him!"

Erik was being pulled to his feet in darkness, a man's hand in his yanking him out of the dirt. Elsewhere, a torch was lit, and in its guttering light he could survey the scene. So he could see, thank God…he soon regretted his relief when his eyes adjusted to the scene.

Mr. Firmin, in a stocking cap and nightshirt, frowned at him. Gustave Daae was methodically checking the condition of his scowling daughter, who shook him off. Piangi had stumbled to the scene, one leg still hanging out of his trousers.  

“Mongrel!” Piangi cursed.  Erik rubbed at his still ringing ears,  seeing clearly the indent of the bullet only inches from where his skull had lain in the dirt. Perhaps it would have been better if she had been successful; at that range it could have been a relatively painless way to go.

He saw the way the men looked at him and gave a deep, weary sigh.

Erik spent the last day of his journey to Calais in a horse-drawn cart, secured to the floor of the goats’ cage. He spent the day fuming, shaking his head to clear the ringing in his ears. The girl had nearly deafened him: what then? He would only be further set apart from the world. He could kill her, the indignant rage returning, and he spent his day imagining scenarios where he escaped his chains and overcame his watchful guard to get his hands around her neck.  

That night, her tormentor chained, Christine enjoyed the best night of sleep she had in weeks.

“Oh, Christine,” her father exclaimed as the troupe rose over the last hill and the fairground came into view. He slowed Amber to a halt a moment, taking in the scene. 

Christine looked down as well and smiled at the valley below. It was a proper fairground. She could see a barn with a paddock for the horses, areas for livestock, and streams easily within walking distance for water and bathing. 

“Come on, girl,” she urged Raya forward to the camp.

 In the fairground center, the men unhitched the horses from the carts used to haul the beams and the huge canvases of the tents. Christine pulled the heavy harnesses off of Cesar and led him and the other horses back to the barn. Only once she had them all fed and watered did she let out a breath of relief. Even the horses seemed perkier, snorting and playing in the fenced-in area where they could stretch their legs and graze without harnesses.  

Feeling settled, Christine leaned on the fence for a minute, watching Raya nip at Cesar with the energy of a filly when she felt a presence behind her.  

Andre Firmin cleared his throat. Christine pushed her stray hair behind her ears. The new circus owner was a little intimidating, in his spats and vibrant suits, always commanding a certain presence. “He used to own a menagerie in Prussia…no one knows why he left it to come here,” Marguerite had revealed with raised eyebrows. “He’s enormously wealthy,” the acrobat girls had giggled. “He is a businessman, with no knowledge of how a circus is to be properly run,” she had heard her father grumble. Christine kept her thoughts to herself as usual. She did not mind the gossip of the acrobats, but her father and Marguerite were shrewd and usually correct in their assessment of people. If Firmin was here to make money above all else, nothing but trouble could follow. 

"Mr. Firmin," she nodded. "Hope it's alright I've taken the smaller paddock." 

He seemed distracted. "Oh, yes, of course. It's yours, dear girl." He smiled. Christine did not return it, keeping her face pleasantly neutral.

When he didn't speak again, she prompted him. "Did you...need something, Mr. Firmin?"

Over the commotion of the circus construction, the man removed his hat and wiped his brow. "Miss Daae."  

"Christine, please," she said, frowning at his formality.

"Christine. I have a...not so much a favor, to ask. But a request." He stared out at the frolicking horses.

"Perhaps you should speak to my father," she suggested, already turning her attention back to the horses. Was Cesar limping, after pulling those carts for three days? She hoped not.

"Well, actually," Firmin leaned on the fence next to her. "I was hoping to speak just to you."

She pretended to still closely observe the horses.  

He cleared his throat. "I can see you and I are similar, Miss — Christine. We love the applause, the pageantry of performing. Would I be correct in this assessment?" 

She considered it. "Yes."

"Do you ever feel like there's something more? Out there?" 

Only every day, she thought. She picked at a bit of the old wood on the fence post, chipping at it.

"I used to work with a circus that traveled here from the Far East," Firmin continued, leaning against the fence. "They have performers on horseback doing the most magnificent tricks. Flips, of course, but also death-defying stunts you could only dream of. The crowds went wild."

Christine felt her ears ring, a stirring in her gut. She had heard stories, of course, of other acrobats from far-off lands doing tricks beyond her wildest dreams: aerial stunts,  lifting each other high into the sky while cantering at break-neck speeds. 

"I'm just one girl, Mr. Firmin," she reminded him. "I'm not sure I could do all that."  

"But what if you had help?" he prompted.

She winced. “I work alone. I perform alone.” 

"Oh!”  Firmin stepped away from the fence. “No, no! I completely understand! I'm not suggesting anything of the sort. I would be remiss to suggest they could possibly share the spotlight with you," he said. He grinned, an expression Christine could tell he thought was disarming.  

All pretense aside, Christine turned away from her horses and eyed him suspiciously. 

He held out his hands, inviting her to take part in his vision. "These performers, you see—they have assistants, in the ring with them. Holding the horses, leading them—so all you have to do is what you do best. You're free to leap from horse to horse, as fast as you can imagine. Someone is there, guiding the horses so you don't lose control."  

Christine could see it. Faster, more splendid. Leaping with two horses, an invisible assistant holding their lead ropes. Her mind filled with ideas: new, unheard of stunts flooding her head. Her heart pounded in time with imagined hoofbeats.

"Oh, Mr. Firmin, you think it could work?"

Firmin nodded. "Imagine. You could be our star performer, have top-billing." 

He said some things after this, but Christine didn't hear. She could see the posters, her image plastered across hundreds of villages and towns, all boasting of her act. Christine Daae and her Wonder Horses...she smiled in spite of herself. She nodded her acceptance of Firmin’s proposal.

"Excellent!" Firmin clasped his hands against hers. "Let's get settled first. Then, I'll send your assistant posthaste, and you can get started."

"Thank you," Christine said as the brightly dressed man returned to the construction. She turned back to her galloping herd, laughing as Amber play-nipped at Raya. Firmin was right; not including Gustave in this negotiation was smart. He would only complicate things. He would change his tune when his daughter was the top circus rider in all of Europe!

Christine had busied herself with the water buckets when she saw them coming from beyond the field. Firmin, of course, his bright green checkered suit glowing in the sunlight. Behind the pair, the big top loomed, finished and ready for tonight’s show. That wasn't what she was staring in horror at. No, that look was reserved for the tall, thin man, not much older than her really, striding behind him. His masked head cocked at an arrogant angle and from the set of his lips, he seemed to be preparing some smart remark.  

No. She could not tear herself from those eyes…those terrible eyes that had bored into her moments before she kicked him. She turned her racing mind to the bruise she had left on him. It would be rather nasty where her heel had made contact with the softest parts of him the night before. Still, she could not even take pleasure in the fact that he was limping, because he was limping towards her. 

"Miss Daae!" Firmin waved. She stood, the water buckets forgotten and floating in the trough.

"Christine," she corrected automatically. 

Firmin's smile didn't budge. "I have brought you your assistant."

Christine's frown remained the same. She did not dare look at the boy. "There's been some sort of mistake," she snapped. "I'm not working with him."

Firmin left Erik’s side. Erik stood with his hands in his pockets, glowering. The circus owner pulled Christine aside. "Come now, dear. He's perfect."

"No, I am certain he is not," Christine glared past the manager’s shoulder at her assailant. "I can’t work with him."  

"You can, and you must," Firmin said, eyes pinching a little at the corners. "He's the only person available; everyone else already has a part in the show."

"He's dangerous! He tried to steal my horses..." she lowered her voice. If Erik could hear them from where he stood, he was doing a good show of pretending he couldn’t. "And he has threatened my life!"

Firmin put up his hands. "I know, he's not the most savory character, but trust me; he will be well behaved.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

Firmin chewed his bottom lip, pausing a moment before speaking. “I will be keeping a particular eye on him, shall we say. Besides, you are welcome to have your father supervise when you are working together."

Christine bit her lip. Firmin continued. "I'm not asking you to marry him, or even work all day with him: from noon until the show, I will still need him in the freak show. So, all you really need to do," he peered up at the sun, "is teach him the routine in the mornings, give him some chores to do with the horses, and at night you'll have someone there so you can do those fabulous tricks." His eyes twinkled. "Does that sound alright, Miss Headliner?" 

That did sound tempting. All she would have to do is teach him to lunge the horse on those long ropes. It was so simple, she could teach it to a child. Even a hardened criminal could do it if he didn't kill her first. She gave a last hard look at Erik, who was now scowling at the ground.

"Fine," she said.

Firmin nodded enthusiastically. "Wonderful. I'll send Piangi at noon to retrieve him for his sideshow."

“This better be worth it,” she hissed under her breath.

Chapter Text

He was late. Christine had said to meet promptly at dawn, and he was late. When she finally saw the loping gait of her inescapable tormentor, she snorted. She put down the heavy water buckets, her shirt already drenched in sweat. She wondered how he was not already sweating in the black shirt and trousers he wore. Had he never worked outside in the summer before?

"Nice of you to show," she said. 

He rolled his eyes. Today he wore a light-colored mask, one that revealed the shape of his mouth. All the better to smirk at her, which he took the time to do now. "I'm here, aren't I?" 

"It does seem that way."

He ignored her tone. "So, what do I do?"

His question seemed genuine. Why he seemed to be waiting for instructions and hadn't already decided to attempt another escape was lost on her. Mr. Firmin seemed sure he would not flee, and apparently, he was right. 

"Well, I have already mucked the stalls, watered the horses, and put them out. So..." she resisted the urge to say "nothing" in her most sarcastic tone. "Let's get you lunging."

"Excuse me?" Erik said, but Christine was already ducking between the slats of the fence to head into the paddock. 

He hovered behind the fence, not daring to embarrass himself, she was sure, by trying to maneuver his long legs through and around the fence rails. She could feel his eyes on her as she whistled, Raya coming to her when called, nuzzling her hand. She could hear him whisper, "How did she do that-" 

She smiled to herself, a small victory against her tormentor and secured the long rope to Raya's halter and led her to the gate where Erik stood. She almost introduced them, as she was wont to do with those who met her little herd, but stopped short. The briefer the interaction, the shorter the lesson, the sooner he would be far, far away from Christine. Just holding a lead line, that's all he had to do. He didn't need to talk to Raya, or touch her, to do that. She handed him the rope, and Erik looked down at it like it was a poisonous viper. Christine rolled her eyes and snatched the rope back. 

"I'll show you. This is what you'll be doing. Your job is to keep the horse at a steady pace while I'm performing. If I don't have to worry about managing the horses, I can do more while I'm riding – are you even listening?" Erik blinked back at her. She sighed. "Stay here."   

She walked Raya a few yards from the paddock, to the open field beyond the circus tents. She touched Raya's neck, speaking to her softly, before releasing the slack on the rope and putting some distance between her and the horse at the end of the rope. She gave a whistle, and Raya began to trot. Christine held the rope tight, the center point of this circular path, acting as a fulcrum for the horse, moving to stay with the horse's movements. Every so often, the horse would slow, and she would make a sharp noise with her mouth to urge Raya to maintain speed. 

"You have to stay on top of her– if you don't you can–" 

Erik watched, barely listening to the girl's grating instructions, already bored. It was simple. Nothing challenging about this, nothing warranting his gifts. He could do this in his sleep. He wished she would cease this torment and leave him be. His mind was somewhere else, waiting for this to end so perhaps he could get another moment alone with that unfortunately tight-lipped slave of fashion, Mr. Firmin. 

As if sensing his attitude, the girl slowed the horse, walking the large grey beast towards Erik. The horse gave a nervous nicker as his eyes met hers. 

He was not stupid, he knew animals did not know the significance of the mask as humans did. Well, most humans; the girl’s barely restrained aggression towards him left little room for the usual fear or pity. Perhaps the horse sensed something off about the strange way his eyes reflected light, made them glow – or perhaps the creature sensed something darker lurking under the surface of his skeletal frame. 

Christine could feel the fibers of the rope in her hand as she tightened her grip on it, her mind unwilling to release control of her horse to the insolent boy in front of her. No, Christine, she thought to herself. He’s asked for this. You have to let him swim – or sink.  

"Here, you try," she said, her voice pointedly neutral.

"No." 

She stared back at him blankly. "No?" Christine wrinkled her eyebrows. "You agreed-" 

"I didn't agree to shit, sweetheart," he said, voice dripping with vitriol, eyes flashing with anger before he resumed his general apathetic stare. "Leave me alone."

She stared at him. How dare…

"Fine," she said. He did not look at her but at some middle distance. "It doesn't matter to me. I'll just tell Firmin it's off."  She tightened the grip on Raya's lead and began to walk back to the barn. It would be easier alone. It always was. What was the saying? If you want something done…

She had gone a few yards from the practice area when she heard him say, "Wait!" She rolled her eyes before turning her and her horse back around. 

She shook her head. "It's fine! I really could not be less invested in whatever this is," she shrugged. "I work best alone." She laid it on thick, this back and forth grating on her. Did he think he was such a great prize for a partner? 

"Don't tell Firmin," was all he said. 

"Well, I have to," she frowned. "It was his dumb idea, bring in more revenue with riskier tricks…" 

He opened his mouth, the only part of his face visible below the mask. He snapped it shut. "Don't…do that–" 

Christine shook her head. "Whatever weird issue you have with Firmin…leave me out of it. But I have to, before he prints the new posters." 

"What?" 

"He was planning on making my – this new act the headliner," she sighed. "Guess that's over now."

He was shaking his head. "I don't understand why I'm involved in any of this." 

"Me neither," she answered honestly. "I suppose Firmin has a sick sense of humor. But he's worked in bigger shows before. He knows that I'll need help. And shockingly, no one else wants to work with you. So…lucky me."  

Erik's mouth turned down into a frown. Christine pulled Raya's head back up from grazing the long grass. "Are you done? Can I go back to whatever I was planning on doing before you darkened my doorstep?"

He chewed his bottom lip. "I ah – I suppose I could – I don't see how I will be any – " 

Raya took a couple of lumbering steps towards the struggling man. She lurched her head into his torso and Erik gave an uncharacteristic yelp. "Your horse is trying to bite me!" he exclaimed. 

"She's trying to sniff you, " Christine corrected. She did not immediately pull Raya back – perhaps a good bite from her would be the final nail in the coffin for this brief partnership. He did not move, nor did he storm out. She looked up at the sky. They were losing time.

"So," she broke the odd bonding session between Raya and this menace. Raya nuzzled Erik, who stared at the horse like some wild bear come to maul him to death. He kept his fist clenched close against his torso, despite Raya's nibbling. Et tu, Raya? "Do I have to go tell Firmin we're off?"

Erik did not move, had not moved since the horse started her investigation. "We do not have to involve – I do not see how I will be of any impact – " 

"So no?" She did not wait for an answer. "Great, time for you to practice." She thrust the lead rope toward him. "Now that you two are acquainted…" 

The infuriating girl got an impish grin on her face. Erik clenched his jaw. The horse's mouth – and teeth – were dangerously close to his hands. His hands were his instruments, were what he performed with, or at least used to perform with. He could not afford to lose them to some horrible beast's appetite for human flesh. 

Animals did not like Erik, his mother had made that clear when he tried, over and over, to bring home stray animals. "They will just leave," she said time and again, forcing him to cast them back out of their house. Those were only kittens and stray dogs – what a full-grown horse could do to him, he did not want to find out. He tensed back away from the grey horse. Only when the girl shook the rope at him, pulling him from his thoughts of long ago, did he respond. 

You've seen horses before, Erik, he reminded himself. How hard could it be, if this girl half his size commanded not one but two horses every night. No, this was certainly within his abilities. 

Erik scoffed and took the rope. Immediately, Raya reared. The horse was stronger than Erik had guessed, and he felt the rope nearly slip through his grasp.

"Hold on!" The girl held her arms up and the beast returned to all fours, snorting and breathing hard in his general direction. She pet the thing as if he had been the one to offend it. "Horses can sense your energy. If you're afraid, so are they."

"He's afraid of my face," Erik growled, more to himself. Yet another entity to add to the list of people who feared him.

"Raya is a mare.” 

Erik blinked. 

“A girl horse," she corrected. 

“I know what a–” Of course he knew that, what did she think he was, some sort of idiot? 

"And she doesn't care about what you look like. She can pick up on your emotions. You need to relax," she instructed. 

"I am relaxed," he retorted, tightening his grip on the rope.

The girl shrugged and pointed. "Go out to where I stood before."  

He sighed, pulling the reluctant horse to the place in the grass where she had indicated. 

Christine crossed her arms and scowled. He was standing all wrong, holding the rope incorrectly, the horse was already off focus. "Now let out some slack, there you go," Christine said. Was teaching always this exhausting? Perhaps, with such an infuriating pupil. Didn't he know anything? "Now, tell her to go!"  

"Uh, go ?" Erik attempted. Raya put her head down to graze at the thick green grass of the meadow.

"No!" Christine said, voice sharp. "Pull on – there you go. Don't let her decide what we're doing. Give a little 'tctch'" She made a clicking noise with her tongue. "Or a whistle, if you can."  

Erik gave a low whistle, which caused Raya's ears to turn, but she didn't move. "Go! Horse – " he said,  his voice hesitant. "Go!"

Christine headed for them. She veered around Raya's backside and gave a sharp slap, causing the horse to neigh and canter. Erik gave a "Whoa!" as the rope again slid and slipped from his hands.

"Hold on!" Christine said from outside of Raya's path as he scrambled for the slack in the dirt. "You gotta show her who's boss! What are you doing?!"  

"I'm trying!" 

"Try harder!" 

"Forget it!" He threw the rope on the ground. Raya strolled to a particularly lush patch of grass and resumed grazing a few yards from them. He crossed his arms across his chest, his shoulders tensed up by his ears. 

"Oh come on," Christine said, crossing her own arms in exasperation. "It's only the first day! You didn't even try!" 

He stalked towards her and suddenly the rumors about what he was capable of did not seem so outlandish. Anger glinted in his eyes and she glanced behind her. How many feet to the nearest tent? The nearest person who could hear her? She didn't like the odds. "You forget yourself," he hissed. 

She fought her instincts not to take a step back. What did they say about bear attacks? Make yourself as big as possible? She stood her ground and hoped that was enough, the same stance she took when her horses lost their temper. "Watch it," she warned. "I'm doing you a favor."  

"You!" he laughed, a horrible, derisive sound. "If anyone is doing favors, it's me. I didn't ask for this." 

"That's rich," she said. "You think I didn't notice how your face changed when I said I'd tell Firmin you quit? What was that? Are you afraid your daddy is going to punish you more?" 

"He's not my – I don't listen to anyone. And I certainly don't need to listen to you." He clenched his fists, the veins in his neck taut.

Bile rose in her mouth from the adrenaline. He stood only a few feet from her. How easy would it be for him to close the space between them? 

She surprised herself by laughing. "Fine," she said. "Screw it, I guess. Sorry I tried to teach you a few things so you don't get yourself killed." 

"What – " 

"I've seen men bigger than you dragged on their ass from not lunging correctly. But what do I know? You've got all the answers, it seems." 

She watched as the veins in his arm tensed with the fists clenching at his sides. He took another step towards the horse and she held her breath. 

Erik gritted his teeth and looked back at the enormous mare grazing, the sound of her gnashing teeth tearing the blades of grass from the root in a swift, harsh motion. The horse had been stronger than he had expected. 

"Don't come crying to me when a 2,000-pound animal is dragging you through the gravel.” 

"Who said I was staying?" 

"I'm sure Daddy Firmin will love hearing that – " She cocked her head to the side and he saw red. Was she trying to provoke him? He was not some animal, to be goaded into a fight. So he took a breath and swallowed the rage down as he had done so many times before. 

"Fine, fine…what do you mean it can drag me? That thing – " 

"Are you actually going to listen to me? Or am I just wasting my time?"

Erik sighed and walked away, adjusting his mask before walking back. He took a moment to let some of the tension bleed out of him. Only then could he turn back, his voice determinedly civil.

"I'll listen," he relented. "But don't let that thing kill me."  

Christine took joy in imagining just that, but swallowed her rage to explain that yes, you needed to stay with the horse's gait, that you needed to stay on top of it. He glared at her as she demonstrated again, watching her silently. He took over and almost immediately the horse stopped. 

"Forget it." He dropped the rope yet again, crossing his arms tight across his chest. 

"Try again."

"No." 

Christine imagined, briefly, wringing his neck. "Come on…we don't have much time left." 

She pretended not to notice the way he rolled his eyes. She breathed a sigh of relief when Piangi came striding through the grass towards them. 

"Tomorrow you will try again," she said. 

"If there is a tomorrow," he managed to snap back before Piangi gestured, keeping a wary distance to escort him back to the tents. Christine plunked herself down on the grass and tried to slow her heart rate back to normal. 

"I just don't understand," she said to Marguerite in her caravan over sweets later that day. "The whole time he stared at me like he wanted to kill me. He could have easily stolen Raya at any point today. Why didn't he?"  

Marguerite shook her head as she tidied the old magazines they had been flipping through. "I really don't like this," she repeated. "And you know I don't know anything. If anyone knows anything, it's Firmin," she said. 

"And that was so odd too! He went on and on about how he doesn't listen to anyone, but he stayed because I threatened to tell Mr. Firmin he quit." Christine eyed the center in the chocolate. Raspberry. Yuck. 

"Maybe Firmin is threatening him," Marguerite suggested, reaching for a chocolate of her own. "Oh, coconut," she handed the chocolate to Christine who swapped her half-eaten candy with her friend. "Maybe Firmin knows something. Maybe he's going to inform the police if he runs. Why the mysterious Mr. Firmin hasn't already is beyond me. The boy has some sort of hold over the man. Maybe Erik's the one threatening him…" 

"Ah–" Christine had tried to avoid thinking about the real human life that this man had taken. But the look in his eye today….

"You know, I'm surprised your father is okay with you working with someone so…unsavory," Marguerite said, her voice measured and casual.

"Yes," Christine said. "Ew, licorice – want it?" 

Marguerite's love of black licorice was thankfully adequate to make her forget her statement. The truth was, Christine hadn't told Gustave what she was doing. He rarely supervised her practice, often busy with his music and attending to other tasks around the camp.  When he saw her perform such a horribly dangerous trick last week, well…she kept to the adage that forgiveness was easier to ask for than permission. 

Besides, he would learn soon enough, anyway, if they performed together on Saturday. If Erik quit beforehand, well, why worry her father with something that would never even come to pass? She sat back in Marguerite's plush armchair and tried not to think about the threats from Erik that morning. What would she do if he came at her again? Would she be able to hold her ground if he didn't back down?

The rest of the week was as frustrating as the first day, though by the end Erik could at least maintain a grip on the rope as the horse galloped with Christine on her back, but it took Christine secretly urging the horse on to maintain the proper gait.

All too soon, it was the day of their debut together. 

She pulled Raya to a stop as the sun reached its zenith. "Look." Sweat poured down her back and she caught her breath. They had run the routine over a dozen times. She stretched and stared at the man loosely holding the rope, looking for all the world like he wanted to be anywhere else. They had maintained a relative silence since that first explosive day, and Christine had tolerated it. Until now. 

He seemed startled to be addressed, and turned his head in her direction. "Tonight," she fought to get her breathing back to normal after a particularly difficult flip had left her falling back in the saddle. "Tonight, all you have to do – all you have to do is stand there. Don't try to do anything, you aren't ready."   

"I'm not sure – "  

"You aren't ready," she repeated. "So what you're going to do is hold the rope and look like you're doing something. Then, Firmin will see that we tried, and that the routine isn't what he had hoped, and I’ll see if you can get out of whatever he's telling you you have to do. Then we can all wash our hands of this whole stupid idea. I go back to working alone, you go back to…whatever hole you crawled out of." She sighed. She didn't know when in the week she had kissed her headlining dreams goodbye, but at this point she would give anything to work alone again, to never see that sarcastic sneer again. She thrived on her own…always had. Some people were just not built for collaboration. "Meet here at sundown so we can prepare." 

"Fine," he said. At last, something they could agree on. 

"Fine." 

Erik gave a curt nod, but Christine was already checking Raya's mane for mats. She watched him stalk off out of the corner of her eye. She would be happy when this was all over. 

Chapter Text

That night, shortly before the performance, Christine headed for the acrobat girls’ pre-show stretching session.  The girls assembled in front of their caravan to pull and prod each other into impossible shapes, far beyond the positions Christine attempted on horseback, but she had found that warming up with the acrobats was helpful in keeping her muscles loose and avoiding pulls and strains.  

She scowled when Piangi brought him by early for the evening’s performance. The strongman disappeared before she could protest. Was Erik destined to be her constant, sardonic shadow? She could feel the irritation radiating off of him.  

“Do you want to stretch?” she suggested, already knowing his answer. 

He paused. Oh no, she held her breath. He wouldn’t dare—

He stared in distaste at the giggling girls in their short dresses. “Of course not,” he scowled, stalking away before she could adequately assess the lurching in her chest. 

Fine, he can be sore in the morning, she thought to herself as she watched him skulk off. The girls pushed each other into hamstring stretches, pulling themselves in and out of back stretches, flexing and twisting their arms and shoulders until their joints cracked and popped. Some stretches Christine would never be able to do, contortions that she left to the acrobats, but she hated the groggy stiffness she felt when she didn’t prepare for a performance. 

They stretched and they gossiped. Christine enjoyed the former and detested the latter, but she had to take the secrets with the exercises, and so she sat on the floor with the girls and tried not to listen to their crude assessment of their fellow circus workers. 

She was just about to chalk the session up as a success when their silver tongues turned to her.  

"Christine, how's your new assistant?" One of the dark-haired troublemakers, Cecile, giggled. She pressed her feet against Christine's, pulling Christine’s arms towards her. Across the field, a lone dark figure leaned against the paddock gate, no doubt waiting impatiently. Christine gave a theatrical eye-roll and yanked her partner forward with a bit too much force. 

“Ah!” the acrobat yelped. 

"Sorry. I just–don't ask," she said, in a way she hoped conveyed that she wanted to talk no further, and Cecile laughed.

"He looks at you like he wants to kill you."

Christine shivered. "He's tried," She looked back at the shadow. "I'd like to see him try again."  

Christine thanked the girls as they dashed off to their respective entrances. Erik straightened from where he leaned when Christine approached. He was in all black, not unusual for him, but his face was what startled her. He was now wearing a black mask that only covered the top half of his face. 

She could see hints of the jaggedness of his face just above the sharp lines of his jaw and shivered to remember the appearance of that marred expression in the moonlight that terrible first night. The mask he usually wore when he was not on display covered much more and seemed to try, best it could, to mimic the appearance of skin, however poorly, being a light color, neutral, not designed to draw the eye. This one, though, had a shimmering quality to it, deep black, then opalescent as he cocked his head in the arrogant way she knew and hated. She ran a hand over the thin strings of glass beads she had painstakingly embroidered on the bodice of her own costume… She shook her head. No reason to think of that now. 

"Oh," Christine couldn't help herself saying as she looked up at him. “You changed your mask.” 

“Yes.” 

She waited for him to explain. He, apparently, waited for some comment that didn’t come, because he cleared his throat. “I can change if it’s too distracting. I don’t want to rob you of your spotlight,” he sneered. 

“I don’t- you don’t have to-” 

"Trust me. I'm used to it," he said, his voice dull. "Ready to get this over with?" 

He knew the mask was a mistake. He had used to perform with it on, thought the iridescent black added to the air of mystery, but obviously if the girl had so pointed it out it must look ridiculous. It was not the first time he wished to be back in that sweltering freak show enclosure. At least there, he knew what he was: on display for people to gawk at.

Christine handed him Raya's lead. It was fine, it didn’t matter what he wore; after all, he was just filling a temporary role. Incredibly temporary, if he had anything to say about it. 

"Just follow my lead," Christine hissed, her glittering skirts cascading over her horse as she mounted Raya. Without another word, she urged the horse into the ring, Erik scrambling to keep up. 

A hush fell over the crowd as Erik led Christine into the center of the arena, Christine soaking in the energy, smiling and waving. Then, she kicked Raya, coaxing her into a trot. 

Erik stood at the center, simply, letting out the slack as he had been instructed. He still hadn't mastered, or much attempted, urging the horse forward himself, and let Christine get the horse into the consistent canter she needed to begin her tricks. He counted the minutes until this was over and he could retreat back to his cage. 

The first trick, a somersault in motion, was a success, and Erik found himself tensing and relaxing with the crowd, more a spectator than a participant. It was interesting to watch how she changed, how she lit up. Her costume sparkled and shone with the lights. He wondered for a moment if she had designed the dress herself. He recalled the day the fabric merchant came to the traveling show, the day he chose the black fabric, the way it looked emerald and purple and golden when it caught certain light. The nights he stayed up stitching the iridescent cloth by lantern light, creating a cape with secret pockets, spaces to hide his tricks. 

Christine kicked Raya to keep her at the speed she needed, jerking him out of his reverie. She smiled, sweat forming on her forehead as she cantered around the ring. 

The next, a handstand, simple and effective. In the crowd, people whistled and cheered. Erik wondered if they were cheering as much for Christine's tricks as they were for her creeping skirts, her exposed legs, the low-cut bodice. If she had designed her costume, then she certainly understood what the audience wanted. 

Erik felt the rope go slack and taut in his gloved hands, letting himself get lulled into the routine. This was easy, simple, and, occasionally, he could pretend the applause was for him as well. Remembering his own glory days, yearning –

He wouldn't have noticed the difference, even if he had been paying attention. Christine's hands leaving the horse, pushing herself from the handstand into a flip. Raya's speed increased infinitesimally, enough for Christine to slip,  for her little silver boot to be caught in the stirrups she didn't need to use, but were there – God, why were the stirrups there? 

The heel of her other foot coming down too fast, trying to correct, the boot hitting and cutting a scratch into Raya's rump, the horse squealing and taking off in a full gallop. The skirts of tulle flying down into the dust, the billowing brown curls falling dangerously close to the horse's back hooves. The audience went silent; so much so that he could hear the thump of her back hitting the ground, the sound of her dress dragging across the graveled surface of the arena. 

It must have happened in only a few seconds, but when Erik thought back, it all seemed to be moving slower than reality, every detail burned in his mind. 

He saw the look of fear as her brown eyes met his before he came back to himself and yanked the rope hard – probably harder than he needed, stopping the horse cold.

Her father already was in the ring, the other circus members grabbing her, pulling her boot free from the stirrup. The audience slowly realized what had happened and began to stand, to scream. 

Erik froze where he stood before an arm pulled him from the arena, the rope torn from his hands, the horse ushered away, still snorting angrily, still breathing hard. He saw the clowns rush forward, trained for this type of thing. Soon, the sounds of laughter could be heard from the crowd, the moment passed and forgotten by the mob. 

In Marguerite's trailer, Christine's screams reverberated against the walls.

"Oh, my sweet girl," Marguerite coaxed, brushing the dusty hair away from the thick blood caking her back. Christine lay on her stomach on Marguerite’s couch. She could feel every inch of her back burn, the skin cut and scraped away from her back in huge patches. She screamed again, tears blinding her. 

She could hear her father’s voice mingled with another, a stranger’s voice. Medical terms, words of concern, nothing made sense to her. Her bodice, or what was left of it, was peeled from the torn flesh already trying to fuse to it. Someone put whiskey from Marguerite's stash to Christine’s lips. Gustave put out a hand to stop the transaction, but Marguerite's glare stilled him. 

"The girl is in pain, Gustave. Whiskey isn't going to hurt her, not now."

Christine held her breath, the liquor burning her throat. Immediately she heaved. Marguerite held her hair back, gave her a basin. "It's alright baby," she cooed. "Let it out." She motioned for a glass, asked for some honey. "Try this, sweetie," she said, offering Christine the sweetened liquor. 

Christine shook her head, and Marguerite got close to her, her voice changing.

"They're about to sew you up, sweetie. This will get you through that without fainting dead away." Christine's eyes widened as she drank the sweet whiskey without complaint.  

Marguerite hadn't been telling the whole truth. She hadn't mentioned how, before they could stitch her wounds and bandage them, they had to clean out the immense amount of dirt and gravel from her back. It was slow, painstaking, agonizing work. and Christine was sure her wails kept most of the camp awake for a good part of the night. 

As each area was cleaned, Christine replayed the last moments before her fall: Raya, speeding up. The sensation of falling. The piercing yellow eyes. At first, she could have sworn they were fearful, matching the own terror she felt as she fell. But, by the dawn, when they had to dig for the last rocks under her skin, she knew: he hadn't felt a thing when she fell. She was more and more certain he may have caused it on purpose; planned it all from the start. No wonder he hadn’t just fled when they had been partnered together: he needed to stay just long enough to sabotage her. And to think, she had trusted him with her horse and her life. Her jaw clenched as they wrapped her up, her father carrying her, putting her to rest in Marguerite's bed. 

Her jaw didn't unclench in the early morning when, with everyone else asleep, she stood, every step agony, and headed out of the caravan.

Dawn rose and Erik awoke. It was, as most nights, an uneasy sleep in his cage, his prison. He stretched and rubbed a hand over his face, death’s visage. Piangi would be by soon to retrieve him on behalf of the girl—if he wanted to wash unsupervised, he would have to move quickly. He unlocked the cage with the stolen hairpin plucked from an unknowing woman’s bouffant and stole into the morning air. 

He was returning from the river, headed for his cage to lock himself in again and await Piangi’s arrival when he realized his mistake: of course. There would be no practice today. Surely the girl was unconscious, if not dead, from her injuries. He wondered if anyone would tell him if that had happened…or would they just appear with torches and pitchforks. 

He scowled. He was pushing his luck staying away from his enclosure for so long. He took the short way back to the tents when he saw her.

In the rising sun, her hair, still covered in dust, glowed like a halo around her head. Erik ducked behind a cart, watching. How on earth –

She walked, incredibly slowly, limping, but upright, without complaint, jaw set. Her shirt was loose, open at her throat, not tucked into her trousers, her boots unlaced. But she was standing, though stooped, and walking, determined. Erik held his breath. She was insane. A fall like that – he had heard the screams last night as she had been cared for, they all had. 

The horses were still out in the paddock. She whistled feebly to the grey mare and the horse walked over to the fence.

Erik almost gasped when he saw her back. Though bandages were visible at the collar of her shirt, she was oozing blood, her entire shirt-back caked dark red. He could only imagine how her wounds must be being reopened by this exertion.

He could hear her trying to speak, and he held his breath to silence his own thudding heart. 

"Hey girl," she crooned to Raya. "Come here."

She got Raya parallel to the fence. Even wounded as she was, he saw how she checked the condition of the red gash on the horse’s flank. 

And then Erik watched in abject horror as, bleeding, she stepped up onto the rails of the fence. She couldn't possibly be –

She mounted the horse with a soft "oh!" Her face contorted in pain. She kicked the horse, and they walked an excruciating, slow circle around the ring. Every step seemed agony, her body bent over the saddle, her face twisted and wincing. She was sweating despite the cool morning air. 

Finally, mercifully, she pulled Raya to a stop against the fence.

"Thank you, girl. Now I won't be afraid. Next time," Christine cooed and patted the space between her ears. Raya snorted as if she understood. 

Last night, Erik had been rattled by the affair, but he had slept confident that his interaction with this insolent girl was over. Now, though...she was impulsive, infuriating, impertinent; yes, she was still all these things, but seeing her on the back of that horse, nearly unconscious with pain, he recognized something in her that he knew well. She was a survivor, a fighter. Resilient. Something long-dormant fluttered in his chest; his own thirst for something more, to push beyond limitations. He watched her dismount, slowly, painfully. He ducked farther behind the cart, irritated by his own moment of connection with this entitled brat. Wait–why would he even equate her to him? They were not the same, would never be the same, had nothing in common. This whole idiotic venture would soon be over and he would be on his way, far from this infuriatingly stubborn girl. Why had he even felt this ridiculous pang of sympathy? When had he become so soft?   

He didn't know. All he knew is when he saw her step off the fence, saw her lips go white and her knees buckle, he was there to catch her before she hit the ground. 

The woman who answered the door eyed him closely, even as her concern for Christine was apparent. "Thank you for bringing her to us,” she said. Erik read the familiar, obvious suspicion clear on her face. She clicked her tongue at the unconscious figure in his arms. “What on earth was she thinking?"   

The woman let Erik carry the girl back to the bed. She was not so heavy, this little wounded thing, and his arms forgot for a moment how to let her go, how to release her onto the mattress. She stirred but did not wake as he placed her down, watched her brow furrow in pain and release back into unconscious slumber. 

His cargo discharged, he looked down to see his arms coated in blood. His eyes widened, his heart raced. He had only seen this much blood once before, with fatal consequences. 

He swallowed, directed his attention to the woman’s interrogation. How did he know where she was? Did he follow her? What was he playing at, bringing her back in such a state? Had he laid a hand on her? 

He shrugged as an answer to the questions, looking about the tiny sitting room. Marguerite squinted at him, and Erik was suddenly reminded that she, too, was a “freak.” What was her life like, which had led her here? He mused, observant eyes taking in the variety of knick-knacks. Well-traveled, a taste for the expensive, the exotic. His examination was disrupted by a thick finger in his chest.  

"Tread lightly," Marguerite warned. "I love that girl like a daughter. If anything happens to her, her daddy won't be the only one after you."

Erik swallowed, pulling his face into what he hoped was an innocent smile. Judging from Marguerite's expression, it was more like a threatening sneer. "Yes, well..." he trailed off. He risked a last glance at Christine, who looked like death warmed over, and slid out of the caravan before he could be threatened again. 

It was outside that he remembered that he was coated in blood – blood that wasn't his. The circus performers were waking, and he was covered in blood. He ducked behind carts and tents, all the way to the stream, far from prying eyes. Red rushed from his shirt as he leaped into the shallows, lying back on the craggy rocks of the brook. In the early morning haze, the cool water cleansing him of Christine's blood, he took stock of himself.

Most noticeably, on the surface, he noticed an absence. The absence of rage, the calculated plan to take that girl's life. It was unsettling, and he shifted involuntarily at the thought as if to look away from it.

Farther down, something else. It wasn't one of his baser feelings, like lust or hate. It was something human, something learned. Something that had swelled for a moment, so brief he thought he had imagined it, in his chest when he saw Christine – for that was her name, and he should use it more – when he saw Christine get back on that horse, covered in her own blood. Ignoring her own external wounds to heal the internal. It was an odd sense of pride, pride that he knew this girl who would rather get back on her horse than lie in a sickbed and pray that death didn't take her while her eyes were closed.

He didn't have much experience with pride. It was something he had immense measures of in himself when he performed, but it was always cut with something harsh, like fear, or anger, or self-loathing. He certainly hadn't felt pride from his mother, who had frequently berated him, criticized his sloppy work, his foolish tricks. "Everyone will see through you, Erik," she had said one day when he showed her some of his illusions. 

Ah, he felt the pain of that as keenly as if he had been dragged through the gravel himself. He let the cold water rush around his ears, let it drown everything out. 

Shame rushed in to fill his heart, the empty places the absence of rage had left behind. How could he have let all this happen?  

When his anger towards Christine had reached a boiling point and evaporated, as it had last night, when saw her near death, what he had been pushing away for the time being returned. Feelings buried deep beneath the anger surfaced.  The grief over his mother. The mystery of it. The powerlessness, and betrayal. His hands clenched at the thought, and he found himself returning to the feel of the girl in his arms, carrying her back to the caravan. That was tangible, real. He had caught her in the nick of time, had done something right. It had been an impulse, an instinct…truly proof he was not a monster. That was something that could scare the dark feelings away, if only for a moment.  

Then, more anxiety flooded where the rage no longer lived. Sure, he felt all right now, here in this moment…what would happen when that no longer worked? What could he possibly do to push away this flood of emotions? 

He knew, now, why he no longer felt rage at the girl: all that hatred he now pointed towards himself. 

His fault, his fault. 

His fault he was here. His fault his mother was gone. His fault he had failed to accomplish even the most simple of plans. His fault…he gritted his teeth.

This…feeling, this incessant beating of hate in his chest for himself could not continue. He could not bear it. He needed something, anything that would drown out the clawing sensation in his soul. 

He sat up, some glimmering thing catching his eye. A gold button. It must have fallen from his trousers when he submerged himself. He reached for it in the cool shallows. 

A button from a special cape he designed himself. Golden buttons, chosen to catch the light, to elicit an appearance of wealth, power, mystery. Hand-sewn by lamplight, fastened securely in the dark of a tent before emerging to raucous applause. Invincibility in a cloak, a mask, a sleight of hand. No longer Erik, no longer anything but what he wanted to create: his most ambitious illusion. Though the cape was gone, he had felt that power, again, last night. Invincible. His chest bloomed at the thought, and the guilt made way for it. 

Ah, he thought. 

He could perform. With the button in his hand, he held his breath, submerging the thin, sensitive skin of his face into the arctic chill of the stream for a moment. When all other thoughts ceased, the girl floated back into his mind. 

His head cleared of shock, and he let out a breath as he emerged. That was what he must do. 

Clean, cool, and clear-headed, he headed back to camp, if not with answers, then with some sort of plan for his path forward.

Chapter Text

The fever came for Christine in the night when she was sleeping. Gustave Daae called for the doctors, Marguerite put cold compresses on her head, and Christine suffered, sweating and calling for her mother for the first time in years. The doctor shook his head.

"If the fever does not break soon, it may consume her," he said. "She has been on bed rest this whole time? She appears exhausted."

Gustave nodded; Marguerite bit her lip. "Well..." she cast a glance to Gustave, who only had eyes on his daughter. "She rode the day before last."

Gustave stared at Marguerite, brow knitted. "What?"

She worried her lip. "I wasn't here, I was out, performing. She must have slipped out – oh, Gustave, I'm so sorry – the boy, the stablehand had to carry her back after she fainted."

“How could you have let her – God, how could she be so careless?” Gustave snapped, his hands balling into fists, the muscles in his neck tense. 

Just then, Christine stirred and the two of them fell to her side, Gustave smoothing the girl’s hair from her eyes. The fury dropped from his face into resignation, and he sighed. 

"I’m sorry,” he said. “I thank you, Marguerite. Doctor. Please, I just – can you give us a moment?"

The other two left the tiny caravan, leaving father and daughter alone in the room. Christine struggled against her father’s hand on her forehead, skin blazing hot. Gustave took her hand.

"My dear Christine, my angel. I cannot blame anyone but myself for your pain," his eyes welled with tears. "And for that, I am so sorry."

She did not answer, nor could she, the fever eating her alive, her bones aching and muscles weak from the pain. On the circus grounds, people paused their work for the night. The laughter at the campfire died. As the night wore on, a single figure left the caravan. Soon after, the sound of a single violin sang over the camp, a song for his lost love, a song for the love he hoped not to lose yet. A requiem.

Across the camp, a captive turned to listen. He stilled his busy mind, his restless scribbling and heard the song. For the second time that week, he felt something swell in his heart. Pity, yes, for the man creating that music. But farther down, beyond where he could admit, there was fear.

Christine's fever broke on the third day. News spread across camp that she had begun to recover, and never was Marguerite's caravan so full of food and well-wishers. Firmin allowed chickens to be slaughtered and food to be purchased from the town for the occasion, and soon the circus' quest to feed the girl turned into a raucous buffet. Christine laughed from her seated position in bed as yet another soup was handed to Marguerite.

"I have no room for this!" she said as the pottery was handed to her.

Marguerite laughed, "You’ll just have to eat faster!"

Christine put the third and fourth bowls onto the side table, absolutely and definitely full. She could hear her father exchanging well-wishes with the other performers, and her heart ached. How much she had put him through! She would make it up to him, somehow, she vowed. Slowly, so as not to upset her full stomach and shaky limbs, she pushed the blankets off of her.

"Marguerite, I think I would like to go outside," Christine announced, stepping tenderly to the floor. 

Marguerite smiled. “I’m glad you’re feeling better.” 

“I am,” Christine admitted. “I’m sure you’ll be happy to have your house back to yourself, too.”

“I didn’t say that,” Marguerite said, but her expression told her Christine was right on target. She let the woman hand her her skirt, stepping into it with an unsteady footing. When fastened, the waistband of her skirt dug into the more shallow scrapes, and she inhaled sharply.

"You all right?" Marguerite asked, and Christine nodded. She wasn't going to let Marguerite know how much pain she was in, for fear she would tell her father and she would be once more confined to that bed. She took a ginger step in her stocking feet into her brown boots. Marguerite stooped to help her tie them, but Christine put out a hand and bent to tie them herself. She held her breath, the stitches stretching across her raw back. The consummate performer, she maintained a serene expression as she tied the bows on her laces and moved out of the caravan.

There was a smattering of applause as she stepped out of the door, and she blushed, giving a bashful wave. The trapeze girls ran up to her, taking her hands and touching her wild hair, as if to prove to themselves she wasn't a specter of their friend. "We were so worried," Cecile said, and Christine thanked them. Her father was busy playing the fiddle, a jig, to the joy of the people gathering for the enormous potluck that had formed around the caravan. She smiled at the sight but something was worrying her.

"Please excuse me," she said to Cecile, and hobbled away from the crowd, past the tents.

How many days had she been sick? She couldn't say, but too long. In her bout of fever, phantom horses had floated in her mind. She didn't want to admit who the skeleton riding dream-ghost Raya was. She gritted her teeth as her wounds threatened to reopen and made her way to the stable. Had anyone thought to check on them? Did they graze all week, with no water? Horses had died from less. Had Amber known to go inside the tent when it was nighttime? Had the wolves come at last?

Her mind was silenced when she opened the flaps to the stable.

New bales of hay were stacked neatly on the side of the tent. In the corner, the muck pile had been recently cleared out, the stalls had fresh bedding. The central trough was clean, and empty, the water buckets ready for the evening chores. On the trunk that stored the horses’ tack, she could see the oilcloth and Cesar's bridle, still glistening from the leather being conditioned. Tacked to a post, much higher than eye level for her, a note. She stretched on tip-toes to reach it.

In broad, elegant script, a list.

• Amber won't eat until the others begin

• Muck 2 x day (?)

• Hay in morning and night

• Inside morning, afternoon paddock, back inside – Cesar has to lead, or they won't follow

• Raya groomed first – curry comb with soft bristles for her

• Don't leave still water in trough

• Hot day/cold water – colic

• Talk to Bernard about more hay – store in dry place

Christine stared at the list. Everything was obvious and familiar. With a shock she realized this person had copied her advice, given in passing, verbatim, into a list of instructions. She clutched the list in her hand, stalking out of the stable, past her well fed, well-watered horses, towards the freak show tent.

The tent was empty – most of its inhabitants at the party, the party she should be at if she didn't have to deal with this. Her back stung with every step, which is why she stopped at the final cage of the freak show and spat, with a little too much vigor, "What is this?"

She held the list up to Erik, who had been crouching in the corner of his cell, apparently reading. He pushed his hair back from his forehead, the late afternoon sun giving him an eerie glow. "You're alive," he stated. "That's good to know." He returned, infuriatingly, to his book.

"Yes I'm alive," she said through gritted teeth. Her back was searing. "No thanks to you." Suddenly the list fell to the back of her mind. "Just a question, did you mean to kill me at the show? Or was it just a consequence of being a complete imbecile?" Her words stung, and she saw his yellow eyes flash in anger for a moment. She was thankful for the bars between them.

"No," he said quietly, looking intently at his book.

"No what?" Christine asked, hands clenched. Her vision swayed a moment, and she hoped she didn't lose consciousness. Something stirred in the back of her mind. She had fainted at the stable, that first morning. How had she gotten back to the caravan? She stored the question in her mind, to be investigated later.

"No, I didn't mean to kill you," he said, a little louder. 

Christine barely heard him, her blood rushing to her head, trying to keep her standing. "I come back, days later, to find you here," she gestured. "And this," she held up the list. "And the horses are fine."

Erik nodded, mirroring her words in a monotone. "The horses are fine."

Christine felt the breath, and anger, rush out of her lungs in a whoosh. "Why?"

Erik shrugged. "Someone had to."

She looked down at the little list. "You listened to what I told you?"

He shrugged again. "I have a good memory."

Christine felt like crying. She was so tired, and so frustrated, and now she was...incredibly confused at the boy sitting in the cage, pretending to read. She sighed. "Well. As you said, I am alive. So...thank you," she choked on the words. "And I will take things from here."

He looked up. "You're firing me." He didn't look surprised.

"I can't imagine you want to work with me, after," she gestured. "Everything."

He gave a curt nod, and returned to the book. His eyes didn't move across the page. She moved to leave.

"Christine," she heard the voice behind her and she froze. He leveled his gaze at her. “I am sorry.” 

That horrible night came in pieces to her mind. The adrenaline coursing, the desire to prove her father wrong. A trick she had not always rehearsed successfully, revealed before it was ready. Her foot in the stirrup. 

“I should have known better,” the boy looked at her, chastened. “I cannot pretend that I like you – ” 

She snorted. 

“ – but I did not wish for anything like…that…to happen.” 

She looked away, the words on the tip of her tongue. She bit her lip. 

He continued. “I’m sorry I had not listened – ” 

“No,” she interrupted him with a grimace. She ran a hand through her hair and could not look at him. 

“What?” 

She cursed her infernal moral compass. “It’s not – it wasn’t your fault.” 

He frowned. “I didn’t have control of the horse, I wasn’t paying attention, if I could have seen – ” 

“You would have done what, exactly?” she said. “I didn’t teach you what to do. You couldn’t have helped, even if you had wanted to.” 

“I put you in danger.” 

“I was reckless,” she said, her voice very small. She stared at the floor of his cage, wondered how, in such a short amount of time, she got to this point with the person she hated most. She had walked in in anger, and she felt that turn on herself. “I shouldn’t have done the trick. I was wrong.” 

Erik did not say anything, mercifully so. 

“I should not have brought you into this,” she said. “I’ll talk to Firmin, tell him everything, see if he won’t let you bow out of this obligation.” 

“If that’s what you think is best,” he said, not meeting her gaze. 

She stared hard at the skeletal figure crouched in the cage and felt a pang of pity. She was suddenly unsure, again, of those rumors. Did bloodthirsty killers apologize? He seemed genuinely smaller, uncertain behind the bars. “I can – um, also talk to my father. He’s quite influential, perhaps he can persuade Firmin to do something about this – ” 

What was visible of his face contorted into a menacing sneer. “I don’t need your pity, girl.” 

She stared back wide-eyed. “I just thought – ” 

“I’ve already got it covered. While you were convalescing, I arranged my own affairs.” 

“What?” 

“I could not stay imprisoned, waiting around for that thick-skulled neanderthal to cut me loose for every stable-chore. Firmin saw my way of thinking, and we agreed our current arrangement was too restrictive.” He seemed rather pleased with himself, and she found the old irritation roaring back.

She glared. “Well, I’m so glad everything all worked out for you. I wish you well. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to change my bandages – ” 

"Wait," he said and she paused again. She moved to cross her arms in defense and felt the wounds stretch precariously across her back. She let her arms fall. "I – I guess what I'm saying is – I'd, uhm, like to continue, if you'll have me." 

“You’re not leaving?” she asked. 

“Whatever you think of me, I am here of my own volition, Miss Daae,” he raised an eyebrow. She stared at the bars of his cage. Lying didn’t suit him.

“In this cage of your own volition?” She gave him a hard look. 

“Well – ” he looked away. “If I were to help…in the stables, I mean…perhaps this…less constricting arrangement would be possible.” 

“Oh,” she gave a smirk. “You mean, you want to keep this newfound freedom, huh?” 

His lips pressed into a thin line. 

“And you need me to do that,” she smiled. “Well, well, well…how the tables have turned.” 

The muscle in his jaw clenched and unclenched. “I’m not going to beg you, if that’s what you’re implying.” 

“Hm!” Christine raised an eyebrow. “Much to consider, to think about. I will have to mull over this proposition quite thoroughly.” 

“Forget it,” he said. “I’d rather stay locked in a cage than be at your beck and call.” 

She pivoted on her heel to leave the tent and faltered, her head dizzy. She suddenly did not know if she would faint where she stood. Her eyes found Erik’s, who looked back at her with concern.

“I’m fine,” she said, unsure if it was true. She wasn’t so certain she could walk out of the tent if she had to right now.

“I didn’t ask,” he said, but he did not take a careful eye off of her. She breathed slowly through her nose and out her mouth where she stood. 

“Let me feed and bring in the horses tonight. Take the night off. Rest." he suggested. “If this arrangement is still so disgusting to you in the morning, I will not stand in your way.” 

She breathed again, her pulse still pounding in her head. She could not imagine lifting a hay bale tonight. She had no other choice. “Fine,” she breathed. “Just tonight. I will be fine by myself in the morning.” 

He held up a hand in innocence. “Fine.” 

Christine walked the distance between her tent and the stable, the sun barely peeking above the trees. She walked slowly, her back stiff. The bleeding was over, the wounds were beginning to heal. The seams where stitches had been necessary were beginning to itch. She rubbed the sleep from her eyes, holding herself just so to avoid aggravating the wounds further.

She frowned. Did Erik not put the horses indoors last night? She let out a frustrated huff. She had permitted him to help, in exchange, he enjoyed a certain freedom of the grounds. He had promised her...this arrangement would not work if he could not follow the most simple instructions.

She pushed open the flap of the tent a little harder than necessary and let out a yelp of surprise. In the early dawn light, she hadn't expected him to arrive earlier than her, his custom to sleep in as much as would bother her. She held a hand to her chest. 

“Sorry, you…scared me.” She caught her breath. Erik turned from lifting the two buckets of water. Christine pulled her eyes from his bare forearms, the sleeves rolled up in the early summer heat. She lost her train of thought. "You didn't have to – " she reached for a bucket, eager for anything to get her thoughts back.

He was already pushing past her out of the tent towards the troughs. "It's no trouble," he said, eyes trained on the trough, carrying the large buckets with focus, not spilling a drop. Christine watched for a moment to catch her breath, the short walk already having exhausted her.

"Thank you," she said, following him outside. "You already put them out?"

Erik nodded, his mind already automatically moving ahead to the tasks left in the day. As much as he hated to admit it, the hard work felt good. His muscles burned, and it gave him something to think about instead of everything else. There was a comfort to consistency; a comfort, too, of being told he had done well. 

As Christine watched him, out of the corner of his eye he monitored her. Should she be out here, so soon after her near-death experience? Her step was off, she was slow to lace her riding boots. It seemed any movement of her back was agonizing, though she didn't show it beyond a slight hesitation as she tied the old leather boots, rolled up the too-long hem of her stolen trousers. He replaced the buckets in the tent, watching the horses instead of Christine. Raya bit at the hindquarters of a sorrel mare Christine had not yet introduced to Erik.

Christine let out a sharp whistle, and the grey horse flicked her ears back from being pinned to her head in aggression. 

Erik frowned. "Do they do that a lot?"

"What, fight?" Christine leaned an arm against the fence. "Yeah, horses are a bit like school children. They fight, they make up. Calpurnia usually doesn't put up much of a fight."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Calpurnia?"

Christine blushed. "Look, there's only so many books in the circus a girl can get her hands on. When I got Cesar and Cal, I was on a Shakespeare kick," she gave a little frown. "I wanted her to be a mate for Cesar, but the herd...well, they sort of rejected her. They'll work with her, fine, but she never quite clicked with the rest of them." She peered at the brown horse, thin limbed and docile, grazing far away from Cesar's cruel back feet, which were always ready to kick if the mare approached. "It's sad," she sighed, shielding her eyes as the sun broached the treetops above them. "I sometimes wonder if she would be happier, on her own. If I should sell her, give her another chance to fit in, somewhere new." She bit her lip. "But I couldn't bear to lose her if I can help it."

She remembered the chaos of the auction, the scared look in the poor thing’s eyes. She had begged her father to bid on the skinny mare, had ignored that it would be difficult to ride her in such a poor condition. Calpurnia had grown stronger since then. That was a small victory. 

Erik turned, heading back into the tent. He said something she couldn't make out.

"What?" Christine asked after him. He barely paused and didn't meet her eye.

"Honey.”

Christine blinked. “What?” 

“It can help heal wounds." His voice was low and coarse, and Christine couldn't, for the life of her, figure out what had affected him so.

She gave him a second, careful look, as if studying him, and Erik ould feel his blood rush to his skin. He became suddenly aware that his arms and chest were exposed in his thin shirt, and he ducked into the heat of the tent, already nearly unbearable in the morning temperature.

Christine didn't see too much of Erik for the rest of the morning – he said he was going to go get fresh water from the farther creek and he had yet to return. Christine was in the slow, painstaking process of tacking up Raya, to begin the laborious practice she would need to get back up to performing when she heard Erik return.

"Grab the lunge line, Erik, will you?" she called as she latched Raya's bridle. She was cheerful; oddly excited to get back on her horse, even if it would be physical agony. When he didn't respond, she turned.

"Christine," Gustave Daae stood, his thick eyebrows furrowed. Christine felt herself bristle at whatever he was about to say.

Raya nuzzled her arm as she turned from the horse to her father. "Yes, Papa?" she asked. She stood a bit straighter, though it hurt her back. Anything to underplay her injuries.

"I thought we said you weren't going to ride for a while?" he asked, staring at her riding preparations.

Christine shrugged. "I was feeling much better," she lied. "And Raya hasn't been out in so long. A little walk around the arena couldn’t hurt!" She hoped she appeared as innocent as she sounded. Gustave's brow knitted further.

"Christine," he said, warning. "You are not well. I think a bit more time is needed before you ride."

Christine suppressed an eye roll. "If I'm going to perform again, Papa, I need to practice."

He ran a hand through his brown hair, a few shades darker than his daughter's. "About that…"

Christine felt herself shrink within herself. Her father's voice suddenly felt very far away.

When Christine was 10, she had a little brown pony that she would tear through the camp on, jumping it over little branches from the forest. One day, the little horse refused a jump, stopping short and sending Christine over the animal's head and to the ground. One set bone and a hefty doctor's fee later, she had overheard a fireside conversation between her father and the circus owner.

"She has a spirit, that one," the man had nodded to Christine's sleeping figure. Gustave's eyes were miles away.

"Just like her mother," he had said. "And just like her mother, she doesn't always know what's best for her."

"She's young, she'll learn."

"Where? At the circus?" Gustave had protested. "No, this is no place for a young woman."

The man had grunted, taking a healthy gulp of whiskey. "She's with her father. That's the best place for a girl to be, with her father." The man shook his head. "When I lost Marjorie..." he had trailed off, and Christine hadn't heard the end of his thought. She was beginning to doze off herself when Gustave had finished comforting the man.

"I should sell that horse, stop her little sideshow now before she can miss it – " Christine only had to hear the first part of his statement before she came fully awake and leapt up towards the fire.

"Papa, you can't!" she exclaimed then.

Now, much older, and wise to her father's tricks, she stood, waiting.

"Christine, we've talked about this.”

She began to buckle Raya's saddle, voice taut. "You're right, we have. Conversation over."

"The circus is no place for a young woman...I'm not going to be here to protect you from life's cruelties forever, you know," he said, tentatively.

Christine's eyes stung as she whipped her head around to glare at her father. "What of it? What about life's joys, Papa? How can I even explain to you the joy I feel when performing? It makes all this," she gestured to the tent, though she could have easily pointed to her back. Her voice softened. "It's worth it, Papa. I love it." 

Gustave's voice softened, too, as he watched her put her foot up into the stirrup and swing her leg over the grey horse’s back. She put all her focus on doing this painful move without flinching, without letting her father see her in pain. He stilled her by holding onto the bridle. "It's dangerous, my angel."

On her horse, Christine felt bold, towering above her father on an animal that felt as if it was an extension of herself. When she was riding, she was a Greek hero on a winged horse, a Norse goddess, an ancient legend. Something as silly as an overly cautious father couldn't stop her. "Well, Papa, I am, as you say, a young woman now. I can make my own decisions. If you’ll excuse me, I'm going to go practice my act." 

She rode the horse away, sitting proud and tall, the horse lumbering past an exhausted Gustave. Only when she was sure he was out of sight did she dismount, gritting her teeth in pain. Her back was searing; in that regard, her father was right. 

She heard him before she saw him. “Oh,” a voice said behind her. 

True to his word, Erik was carrying back buckets of water from the stream, his own shirt soaked through with sweat. He stared a moment too long. “Are you…”

She felt a tear trickle from her burning eyes – the pain had been more intense than she had thought. She wiped her eyes. "I'm fine," she snapped. 

“Perhaps you shouldn’t be riding yet.” 

“Not you too,” she retorted. “Everyone seems to know what’s best for me. You know what’s best? Practicing my routine.” She looked at her horse. They were wrong, she would ride again; perhaps, though, not this minute. She looked at Erik. 

“When we get back, grab a lead rope, if you’re so eager to help,” she said. “We have a lot of work to do.” 

Erik stood in the center of the field, the horse again coming to a total stop and bending its neck down to graze the long grass.

"No, no, no!" Christine yelled from outside the perimeter of the imagined circle. Erik shielded his eyes in the midday sun; noon was fast approaching, and whatever semblance of camaraderie the two had shared this morning had evaporated with the summer heat. Christine was soaked through to her bandages in sweat, her hair plastered to her forehead. He could only assume she was in great pain from the way she carried herself; he had suggested they end practice early, but she wouldn’t hear of it. 

"You have to be the boss, the horse will walk all over you if you just keep the line slack like that," she reprimanded, the horse happily grazing as they argued. Erik let out a growl at the criticism: not the first of the day.

"Fine!" he said, sweat trickling down his thin skin in rivulets. His leather mask clung to his face, suffocating and soaked through with sweat. He knew he would be sunburnt soon, if it hadn't happened already, the skin would peel, making him all the less appealing to look at. Wonderful.  

He gritted his teeth as Christine reminded him of the form, handing him the long switch that could act as a motivator for the horse. He sliced the air with the switch hard, allowing it to whistle downward and land on the horse's rump. The horse whinnied, rearing up on its hind legs. Erik stood, staring, as the horse reared, pulling the line loose from his grip. He watched as Christine, half the horse's size, jumped in front of her, waving her arms.

Christine’s eyes widened at the rearing horse. "Hey! Hey," she said in a low, stern voice. The horse returned to all four legs and she managed to grab the bridle, petting the horse's neck. "Raya, hey girl, you're all right." The horse snorted, stilling. Christine looked the horse over, checking her legs for injury. It was easy, in the heat of a moment, for a horse to injure themselves. What was not so accidental, however, was the thin red line trickling blood on the horses' flank, made by the switch. Her eyes flashed to Erik, still standing in his position in the field.

"How dare you!" she yelled. "You hurt her!"

Erik frowned. "You said to show the horse who's boss!"

"I didn't say to maim her!" Christine scowled. "Are you even listening to me? I thought you wanted to do this?"

Erik rolled his eyes. "Yes, I'm listening. Maybe it's my teacher that's the problem." 

She let out a frustrated noise and turned back to the horse, who seemed unharmed except for the superficial cut. The sun beat down on her and she felt a bit dizzy. She sighed, not turning from the horse. "How about I just see you tomorrow.”  

Erik snorted. "We’ll see about that," he scoffed. Christine watched in frustration as he stalked away, headed for the smothering heat of the freak show tent without a backward glance. 

Chapter Text

Christine lay in the suffocating heat of the tent she and her father shared. She hadn't said a word to him before bed, still nursing her anger from their earlier conversation. He seemed to be returning the favor, though he had saved her a piece of cobbler from dinner. She had accepted it in silence. 

As she lay in bed, she couldn't imagine a world where she didn't perform, where she didn't have something to work on every day, didn’t have a problem to solve. Even her injury, in all its inconvenience, was a new dilemma to work through, to overcome. She tried not to think of her biggest obstacle: a certain yellow-eyed, arrogant, insolent boy.

She turned over in her cot and fell asleep.

She was in the ring, the glow of the lights so bright that she couldn’t see even the shadows of the spectators. Beneath her, the enormous stallion Cesar galloped around the ring. The invisible crowd roared, all the applause only for her. She smiled, waving, the reins barely in her fingertips. They oohed and ahhed as she rode by them, alone in the ring. 

Suddenly, other horses appeared, riding next to Cesar, snorting and whinnying. Something was wrong – the edges of her dream went darker, were obscured. They were running...what was chasing them? She turned to glance behind her, to see what they were fleeing, and Cesar reared up, knocking her back. As she tumbled down, down, down, too far down for a normal fall from a horse, she looked up and all she saw were a pair of yellow, glowing eyes.

She woke with a start, her nightshirt drenched in sweat. Her father rolled over but didn't wake. She took a moment to realign herself with reality, to remind herself of where she was. Her heart raced too fast, she was too anxious to go back to sleep. She slipped out of her cot and into the cool summer night air to relieve herself.

On her walk back, her heart still not returned to its resting rate, she took the long way round to her tent, past the stables. Knowing the horses were safe and sound always brought her solace, and Lord knew she needed some comfort right now. 

She sighed. Maybe she wasn't being honest with herself; the fall had taken a toll on her. Certainly her nightmares proved it. She rolled her eyes at the thought of Erik's arrogance today. She had thought they were getting to a better place: if not working together amicably, at least she thought they could move forward with an arrangement where they at least tolerated each other. Where did he get off acting so superior, when he couldn't even hold a lead rope correctly? Had he already forgotten that she had done him a favor by keeping him on? 

Ridiculous. 

Her heart was still racing, now more in anger than fear, and she stopped into the stable. Maybe venting to Raya would help her calm down.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness of the tent. When they did, she could not see the white star on Amber’s forehead or the glow from Raya's grey coat. Nor could she hear the sounds of snoring, the usual rustling of sleeping animals. In fact, she couldn't see or hear anything at all.

She scrambled for the tack box, for the lantern and the matches. She carefully lit the lantern and held it aloft, praying her senses were playing tricks on her. They were not. 

Her horses were gone.

She ran out of the tent with the lantern, peering into the paddock. Empty. There was no trace of the herd. In her nightshirt and untied boots, she ran back to her tent, shaking her father awake. He was difficult to rouse.

"Papa!"

"Christine? What's wrong?" he asked, eyes still half-closed. He squinted at the blinding light of the lantern she held over his cot. 

"The horses are gone!"

"Oh? Did you leave the gate open again?"

Christine scoffed. "No, I put them all to bed this evening with..." She paused. With Erik. He had returned, begrudgingly, had helped with the nighttime chores in a state of grumbling irritation. Surely he hadn’t…  

She pulled on her trousers, pausing just long enough to secure her boots before she headed out again into the night, hair wild and flying out of the loose braid at the nape of her neck. She gritted her teeth. Of course, how stupid could she be, he probably was long gone – 

“Christine!” Her father’s voice broke her focus. 

“I have to go-” 

“We will have the company look for them in the morning, I promise. Go back to bed.” 

Morning. He would be miles away by then. She dashed out of the tent with her lantern, ignoring her father’s last pleading calls.  

In the low lamplight, she could see, in the back of the freak show tent, a small figure. He was curled into a ball as if to protect every possible vulnerability, his hands over his head. Erik. He was still there. 

Christine felt the anger evaporate out of her at the sight of the vulnerable boy in the cage. In a split second, she had gone from total rage at this boy to sympathy. She moved to leave the tent, to search for her horses by herself when she heard a quiet voice.

"Christine?"

She turned back, and Erik was now sitting up, his eyes catching the light of the lamp. As if he hadn't been so oddly positioned, sleeping, just a second before. He peered at her in the light of the lantern. 

"I, uh –” she stuttered. She let out a small sigh. Any port in a storm, she could hear her father say. She cleared her throat. “The horses are gone."

"What?" His surprise was either genuine or the work of a master actor. Christine had to hope it was the former. "What do you mean?"

"They're all gone!" she exclaimed. "They were in the tent, and now they aren't. I have to go find them. I couldn’t ask you to – "

He was already at the bars of the cage, moving his hands as a magician might, the lock opening easily as if it were never closed.

She quickly masked her shock. “I don’t know why I’m surprised,” Christine said. 

Erik rolled his eyes and Christine turned to leave the tent. Somewhere behind her, he followed her, grumbling all the while. 

The night was mercifully cool after the heat of the day and the cicadas roared their chorus as they moved past the last of the circus tents and into the woods. Christine shivered. Suddenly, her father's warnings of wolves in the forest weren't so abstract. She wondered what the wolf next to her was thinking. Suddenly, those stories about him weren't so abstract, either. 

The moon lit their path as the trees thickened into forest. Erik cleared his throat.

"Where are we – " he began, and Christine held out a hand. He froze.

"I'm listening," she said after a moment.

"For what?" He sneered. “I don’t exactly think a horse thief is going to say ‘hello, over here!’”

How was everything he did so condescending? Her voice was a little more aggressive than necessary as she replied, "For water."

This surprised him. "What?"

"Water," she said. "If someone stole the horses, they'll need to follow the waterways to the nearest town to sell their stolen goods. If the horses got out, they will naturally head for a water source when they get thirsty."

Erik seemed to absorb this as they continued to step through the thick underbrush of the forest. "Why aren't we just going to the nearest stream?"

Christine considered the question, tilting her head. "Well, if you were a horse, or a horse thief, which..." she trailed off, smiling a little at the joke. "Wouldn't you want to get as much distance as possible between you and where you started? In either case, I assume they traveled for a bit before stopping for water."

They walked in silence for a while, their boots crunching through the dry leaves the only sound. An owl called high above them. The circus had long since disappeared behind them and around them loomed the forest, thick and dark and unknowable. 

Suddenly, Erik stuck out his arm and Christine walked into it. His arm didn't budge.

"What – " She looked up to see him staring straight ahead. The intensity of that gaze froze her in her tracks. Following the line of his sight, she saw a grey wolf, large enough to easily overcome someone Christine's size, crouched in front of them. She felt Erik's arm pushing her backward, so slowly she almost didn't notice at first. He didn't break eye contact with the wolf, who growled, fangs dripping.  

Everything happened so quickly Christine barely registered all of it. She was pushed backward by the pressure of Erik’s arm.  Her left foot, stepping back, landed on a stick which loudly snapped in half.  The wolf snarled. In one deft movement, Erik stooped and picked up a rock and threw it with surprising force, striking the wolf squarely in the snout, drawing blood. Erik lunged forward, Christine fell backward, as the wolf growled and bared its teeth, crouched in an attack stance. All three froze. Christine stared at the creature from her place on the forest floor, peering between Erik’s legs. It felt like ages before the animal took stock of the risks and turned, trotting back into the dense forest. 

Erik didn't remove his gaze from the disappearing beast until it was gone for several moments. He finally looked down at Christine, who sat stunned on the thick underbrush, heart racing. He put out a hand and she took it, half-stunned.

"You all right?" he asked. Unable to speak, she nodded. They headed away from the direction where the wolf had retreated in silence. Christine could feel her pulse hammering in her head as they continued.

"Thank you," she managed. "How did you know how to – "

"Do you know where we're going?" he interrupted, shrugging off her question. 

Christine paused for a moment. What was the matter with him? Once again, she had no answer, and she was again reminded of the rumors surrounding her performance partner. She looked up at the stars, a welcome distraction. She pointed upward, and he followed her gaze.

"See that?" She pointed at the bright stars forming a four-sided shape. "The square there?"

She heard a snort from next to her. "That's more of an irregular polygon," he corrected.

"A what?" Christine wrinkled her nose.

"An irreg – a four-sided shape that isn't..." he stammered. "You said it was a square. I'm just pointing out it isn't."

"Oh, well," Christine stifled her irritation – she found it was easier to tolerate him after he had just saved her life, but that patience was already wearing thinner by the moment. "Well, do you see it?"

"Yes," he said. "The irregular – "

"Yes," she snapped. "Well that's the Big Dipper...see those stars coming off of it, so it looks like a big ladle – "

"Well – "

"I didn't name the stars, Erik," she said. "Take up your quarrel with the ancient Greeks." She resumed her pointing, trying not to notice how intently he was listening, despite his attitude. How much closer he was to her, how dark the night was. How he suppressed a smile when she had snapped at him.

"Take Ursa Major, for instance. That's the Greek name for the Big Dipper. The story tells us that Callisto bore a child to Zeus, the king of the gods. When his wife, Hera, discovered it, she turned the woman into a bear. Callisto's son was in the woods one day and saw an enormous bear. He had no way of knowing it was his mother, and so he shot and killed the bear. When Zeus discovered what had happened, he sent them both into the sky, next to each other." She paused her walk as they reached a small clearing. "See? There's a smaller...er, polygon just there. That's the Little Dipper, or Ursa Minor. And thanks to them, we can find the North Star...there," she pointed. "And we know where we are in relation to camp."

Erik watched the girl more than the stars. He nodded, and tried not to think too much about the ill-fated bear and her son, the regret he must have felt when he realized his mistake. 

They continued walking, the soil beneath their feet damp. Water was near, Christine noted. She smiled a little at him. "So, where did you learn about irregular, er – "

"Polygons?" he filled in. He was happy to be back on comfortable footing. "Pythagoras, Euclid..."

Christine nodded abstractedly. He noticed her hesitation, the usually confident girl bluffing.

"More of your ancient Greeks," he teased. "They taught me geometry."

"How?" Christine's brow furrowed.

"Books!" he said, matter-of-factly. "My mother – " he trailed off, going quiet for a moment. "My mother always had the best books." 

Erik’s voice was soft, his hands stuffed deep in his trouser pockets. Christine went cold at the mention of the woman she had heard only whispers of, the name on Marguerite's lips. "Killed his own mother," "cold-blooded," "unnatural it is," whispered through the camp. She suddenly felt the chill in the air. She was crouching, pretending to examine the footing as she contemplated following her father's orders and coming back in the morning, with more men. Not alone, as she was now, with him. She felt the wet earth, the wind rustling the leaves so she almost didn't hear him the first time.

"What?" she looked up at him; he was staring hard at the ground.

"I didn't kill her," he repeated, barely above a whisper. When his eyes turned to her, she had to consciously avoid flinching. They were passionate, intense. Pleading. "My mother. I didn't kill her. I thought you should know that."

"Oh," she managed.

He shuffled off in the direction they were heading. Christine jogged to catch up.

"Hey!" she called. "What do you mean? I didn't – " She felt a wave of shame wash over her. She couldn't place why she believed him, but her stomach twisted at her previous thoughts all the same. How many times had she ignored the gossip of the little circus? Why had she listened to it now? 

She bumped into Erik’s back – it was firmer than she had expected. Though he was all bones, he was solid. She held out a hand to steady herself, bracing for another wolf. Instead, she followed Erik's gaze to the little sorrel mare, her coat shining as she grazed.

"Calpurnia," she breathed. She held out an arm to keep Erik from moving forward. "She'll be easily spooked," she warned. From her pocket, she pulled out one of the mealy apples from the stable.

"Come here, sweet girl," she crooned, holding out the apple. Cal pulled her head up, eyes wild. "How'd you get all the way out here?" 

Erik watched as Christine spoke to the horse in the low, sing-song voice, talking nonsense. "Where are your friends? Come here, that's it, sweet girl." She held out her hand as the horse nosed the apple and reached for her halter with the other.. Christine's shoulders relaxed as she got a hold of the horse and turned to Erik. 

Erik watched in awe at the compassion this strange person was exhibiting for animals. Where he came from, animals were there to complete a job – and were rarely spared the rod. She was speaking to them like they were her own children. His reverie was disrupted by her wide eyes back on him. "Come here," she said in the same low voice, to him, and he took a tentative step forward.

Gone was her usual bravado. She reached for his hand, and he stepped back for a second. She laughed her tinkling laugh, and he let out a huff of breath. Was she laughing at him?

"I won’t bite. Give me your hand – out flat." He did, and she lightly grasped his wrist to bring his palm to the horse’s nose. It was soft velvet, and the horse eagerly examined his hand for further treats. He made a noise of surprise. "Soft, right? And kind of odd. She's just checking you out, seeing if she can trust you." She gestured to the horse. "You can pet her neck, if you want."

Erik held his breath, nervous the horse would rear or kick. She was small for a horse, but still huge and muscular. He had seen what hooves could do to the other horses, let alone himself. Christine's fingertips coaxed his hand to the horse's coat. The horse snorted and shook its head, startling Erik, but he reached a hand out over the short, coarse hair of the horse. When he brushed up, it prickled, but when he brushed his hand downward, it was as soft as velvet.

"Good," she coaxed towards the horse, but Erik had the sneaking suspicion she was talking to him. His heart gave an odd little lurch at the praise. She examined the horse, pulling the hair off her face and running a hand over her coat like a nervous mother, seemingly looking for injury. "What happened to you, girl? Who let you out? Hmm? Where are your friends, Cal? Down by the river?" She pulled the horse around and Erik followed suit. "Come on, let's find your family." 

They heard the stream before they saw it.

"Good girl!" Christine patted Calpurnia's neck at the sight of the herd. She released the halter as they stepped into the clearing. In the clearing were the five other horses in the herd, including Raya. The grey mare stopped her long drink of water to greet her friend. Christine laughed again. Her horses were safe.  

Christine stooped to the river water next to the herd. "Good idea, Raya." The bracing water was welcome on the warm summer night, and she washed the sweat and grime from her face and hands. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Erik do the same, bringing cool water to his exposed mouth and to the back of his neck. 

Good, she thought to herself. The boy looked in need of a bath, however brief. Questions about him swirled in her head, but she found odd comfort in his earlier confession. If the rumors were untrue, what was the real story? Could she find it out? She straightened up, stretching. It was a long night, and she was ready to return with her herd. 

Erik watched her as she approached Cesar, the white stallion towering over the both of them. The horse stomped its feet, and Christine sighed. 

"I was worried about this, Cesar. We have to go home, now," she spoke sternly to him. "Hey!" She grabbed for his halter, but he bucked his head away from her. "Stop!" she said. Erik was rather entertained: did this girl honestly expect to talk her way into commanding this behemoth?

To his surprise, she stood her ground, taking the halter and forcing the horse's head down. Erik's eyebrows shot up when the stallion let her brush the brambles from his mane, and was even more shocked to watch her pull him over to a nearby rock and leap onto the horse's back. She grabbed a hank of the horse's mane and yanked, steering him, Erik realized, to where he stood. His stomach sank. 

She extended her small hand to him. "Come on," she called.

"I'll walk, thank you."

She shook her head. "We've been walking for miles. This will be much faster."

Erik looked around at his new friend, the little brown horse. "I could ride Calpurnia?" he suggested.

She shook her head. "Have you ridden before?" He shook his head in return. "Bareback is challenging as it is. You will just have to ride with me."

The bravado he had felt explaining geometry to Christine earlier was long gone, and the adrenaline of the wolf encounter had worn off as he took in the enormous animal snorting and stomping in front of him. Erik didn't know how to explain that he was equally terrified of the enormous draft horse and of the girl sitting astride it, and so that was how he found himself atop the white horse behind Christine, not sure where to put his hands.

"Hold on," she gestured to her waist, yanking the horse again. Erik was planning to keep his hands respectfully at his sides, until the horse lurched forward, pitching him into Christine's wounded back. She let out an involuntary yelp of pain, and his hands jumped away from her.

"I'm sorry," he stammered. 

"It's fine, I promise," she said. "Just..." she reached backward with her free hand for his, placing it under her ribs. "There." He could feel the bandages under her thin shirt. He closed his eyes and willed himself not to think of anything else. Certainly not how warm her skin felt under his fingertips. He gulped in a breath of cool night air, trying to put as much space between his hips and hers as the horse lurched forward.

"Hold on, cowboy," she kicked the horse into a bumpy trot, her legs too short to really wrap around the animal. Erik found himself hanging on for dear life as they galloped through the forest the way they had come.

He managed to open his eyes for a moment to look behind him. He gasped. "They're following you!" he exclaimed to Christine. She didn't even bother to turn.

"I know. Herd animals, remember? They're bonded to each other. They'll protect each other, in case of attack. Everyone has their own role. Cesar here," she patted the stallion's neck, and he gave an irritable snort, "is the leader."

"How did he get that position?" Erik asked, looking down at the faraway ground. He swallowed, gripping Christine's torso harder.

Christine tried to ignore the sting of the tight hug around her, threatening to engulf her. It was a pain she could overlook, for the sake of the nervous rider behind her. She urged the horse faster, and they kicked into a canter. He held her in a vise grip, crushing her ribs. She gave a small hiss, her bones still bruised, and Erik released his grasp enough for her to breathe. 

"All I know is that, when the wolves come, Cesar is the one who will defend them."

"He's the best fighter?"

She made a noise of affirmation. "He's feisty! And he makes sure everyone gets where they're going. Everyone got to the watering hole just fine, tonight. Which means they were released, not stolen." She tilted her head upward, to the stars. Erik could see the North Star now, twinkling. "We're almost there."

Christine ignored Erik's clumsy dismount, made sure that Cesar didn't step on him by accident as he crashed to the ground. She swung her leg over the horse, leaping down noiselessly next to the boy. She extended a hand; he stood without her help. 

"I've got it from here," she said, staring at the grazing horses. The stable tent stood nearby. It would be easy to bring them in, once Cesar was safely inside. "Thank you for your help, Erik. And – " for saving my life, she thought, unable to say it. “You know.”

He shrugged. Without asking, he followed her into the tent, securing each horse at their post, making sure they had hay and water. When all was through, she heard him speak, behind her.

"Thank you, Christine." for believing me, he thought, unable to say it. Before she had time to reply, he was gone.

Christine stayed in the stable, settled onto a bale of hay to sleep. She didn’t trust that the person who had let the horses out might not return and try again.  

When she dreamed, she dreamed of yellow eyes – those of the wolf. She was alone, racing away, not able to run fast enough. Stumbling through the thick brush, she tripped backward, unable to look away from the eyes of the wolf. Something black, a phantom in the night, with speed beyond what she could understand, moved in front of her. When the teeth of the wolf sunk into the ghost’s bony flesh, she screamed.

When she awoke, her boots hit something on the ground next to her. She peered in the early light at a jar of honey.

"It helps," the note said, simply. She knew the careful handwriting.

Chapter Text

As a woman who spent much of her time in her own little world, among animals more than people, she wasn't used to noticing things about others. 

So it was jarring when she began to notice the pensive look on Erik's face as he oiled the bridles when he thought no one was looking. How the veins in his forearm flexed when he lifted the saddle off the horse at the end of their practice. How he examined her when he thought she wasn't looking.

She also had returned to the questions she had put to the back of her mind when she vowed to not care about Erik. Why was he ostracized from the others? Why did the other members of the freak show all have their own tents, trailers, and lives outside of the tent, but he remained locked away well into the night? She believed him last night, that he hadn't done what he was accused of. Then why was everyone so afraid of him?

Christine Daae was so busy noticing Erik that she hadn't noticed that Erik was also busy observing, things other than the way the sun created a golden halo around her loose curls when she untwisted her braids. 

No, what Erik was also noticing that next morning, as they prepared the horses the day after their recovery from the stream, was how Christine's father walked towards the stable with a spring in his step. How he seemed lighter, happier. How he asked Christine if she wanted that help now to find the horses.

And how Gustave’s face twisted into shock and  –  was it dismay?  –  when Raya walked into his view. How he mentally counted the horses, all accounted for. All ready to be ridden.

"Isn't it amazing, Papa? We found them last night!"

Erik also noticed the way his own heart lurched when she so casually said "we," and he stifled it. 

He watched Gustave lie, seamlessly: "That's wonderful, honey."

Erik waited until their practice was over. They were both drenched in sweat  –  Christine was able to do some preliminary tricks, nothing too intense, with her healing wounds. Erik had begun to get a good rhythm with the horses and was actually enjoying himself, brainstorming new ways he could be more of an asset to the show. He was carrying the saddle to the rail inside the tent; Christine handed him the saddle soap without a word. They knew this routine well; time moved slowly. Outside, the cicadas roared in the trees, the horses even shuffled more slowly. The heat of midday made it hard to have a conversation.  

"Your father let the horses out," he stated. Only when Christine didn't respond did he look at her. She was staring at him like a gawker in the freak show  –  though he was sure he didn't have two heads. Just one unusual one, and that didn't seem to bother her anymore.

"What?" she asked.

He shrugged. "You were wondering who let the horses out. It was your father."

Christine turned an alarming shade of pink. "What are you talking about?" she sputtered. "Amber is his horse...why would he-" 

Erik shrugged again. "I'm just telling you what I saw. Your father let them out."

"You saw him let them out?"

"No," Erik clarified. "But I saw the way he was acting this morning."

"He was happy they were back!" Christine said, shaking her head. "He offered to find them with me!" 

"Yes, after an entire night had passed," Erik reminded her. "Look, I'm not judging-"

"I'm sure you're not!" Christine warned. Erik watched as she picked up the bridles in one armful, moving away from him to let them dry outside in the sun. "I've got this from here. I'll see you tomorrow."

Erik wasn't sure what he had said wrong. He turned back to the saddle on the post, cursing himself up and down as he finished cleaning it. He was so ridiculous, so haplessly awkward. Why did he open his mouth, and why did it come out like that? What was wrong with him that made her upset? 

He clenched his jaw, the muscles taut with stress. It would be the last thing he said to another living soul today, until tomorrow, when he would greet her with his usual, terse, "good morning." It was only barely noon; the day would be long and full of time for him to silently curse his own foolishness.   To hate himself, to repeat today's interactions methodically in his head until he no longer could remember what was real and what was created in his mind.  His heart raced, in anticipation of the long hours, his own thoughts only punctuated by the sharp laughter of children, pointing at him.

He stared hard at the leather of the saddle until it started to blur. When he finished his chores and stepped out of the tent, he would be forced to begin the pain of his daily routine. Nothing but ridicule and shame for hours in the heat. At night, when the laughter faded to make way for the demons lying in his mind, he might even reopen his scars. That thought made his heart race, and he willed his body to slow, to take his time cleaning up the stable, to delay the inevitable as if he had no control over himself once he left the tent. He didn't, after all. 

He blinked, the tears forming but not falling, staring at the saddle. There was nothing left to clean, and so, with a sigh, he continued on with his inevitable day.

Christine stomped out of the tent with the bridles jangling in her arms. Who the hell was he, accusing her father of something like that? As far as she was concerned, she wasn't so sure Erik hadn't been the one to let the horses out. It would get him out of an occupation he so clearly hated, and would be sweet revenge on the shrewish taskmaster she knew he thought of her as. Yes, he probably did let them out, and was hoping to confuse her with this accusation. She let out a sharp, short sigh. And who was he to be so sure ? So he had read a few more books than she had, sure, that didn't mean he was a genius or God. Just a boy with a little knowledge. If he was so innocent, why did he hide in the tent the rest of the morning, brooding? He probably didn’t want to be around when she arrived at the correct conclusion. 

After all, her father was fine when she saw him, and was even excited when she said she had found the horses! He must have been happy he didn't have to go on the long walk. That was it – he was getting older, he probably was just grumpy when she had woken him the night before and asked for his help.

Help . Yes, Erik had helped her last night, and he was certainly good company in those wolf-infested woods. Her breath stopped short, remembering the fierce look in his eye as he stared down the predator eyeing her throat.

She shook herself and took in a breath.

But that didn't mean anything had changed between them; he probably just didn't want to have to explain to the camp that no, I actually didn't kill her, just like I didn't kill my mother, though no one believes me. She laid out the bridles in the meadowgrass to dry. She would have to polish the buckles, soon, she noted.

What was that about his mother? She recalled Marguerite's story, one that featured so vividly in her dreams. If he hadn't killed her, who had? And why was he being punished by being in this circus, instead of rotting in a jail cell? Something wasn't adding up. 

Done with her tasks, she set off away from the stable, avoiding the entrance in case Erik emerged. She looped wide through the camp, walking around the back of the freak show tent on her way to the canteen. It was there she heard men's voices. The sound of her name stopped her short as she rounded the corner of the big top. She pressed herself against the canvas of the tent, listening.

"Christine is a young girl, she'll learn," she heard Mr. Firmin's boisterous voice.

"But Andre," Gustave Daae's voice was ragged and desperate, a far cry from the jovial man Christine had seen this morning. She didn't care for the edge to his tone. "What if she goes too far again, what if she falls, what if she's hurt again or – " his voice choked. Christine pressed back farther against the tent as their voices got closer, but they seemed to pause.

"There there, Gustave. She's a smart girl, she'll be all right. And so talented..." Firmin trailed off. "Look, I understand your concern. But I've got enough problems. Remember what I told you about that boy...I can barely keep an eye on him as it is. With all these changes in the camp, all these expenses, I’m afraid I can’t ask her to stop performing quite yet. And you have to admit, she does draw a crowd." Firmin let out a laugh. "Wait until we go to Perros, my friend. There are more ways than one to get a girl to settle down. Now about the new drums you were asking after..."

Christine held her breath as the men passed. Thankfully, they paid no notice to her behind the canvas. Her mind flooded with questions she attempted to answer. Why was her father talking to Firmin about her act? If he had fears, why didn't he speak to her about it? The words " stop performing " kept repeating themselves as her feet made their way, automatically, to Marguerite's trailer. She hoped her friend was in, though the circus was well underway and the crowds would be queuing for a look at the infamous bearded lady. It was this exact bearded lady that the distracted Christine crashed into, not seeing her in the crowds of visitors.

"Christine!" Marguerite exclaimed, pulling her between the carts and towards the shadows of the trees. Firmin didn't like "the freaks" to be seen by the public without their nickels filling his coffers first. "I have to go to work," she commented. "But walk with me. I haven't seen you around since –" Marguerite paused. Christine anticipated how she would phrase what happened. "The accident" sounded so foreboding. 

Christine looked up. "I know, I'm sorry I've been..."

"Distracted?" Marguerite filled in. "Yes, I can see that. I'm sorry to hear about your horses, baby." She patted her on the back.

Christine's brow knit. "What?"

"Your horses. I heard they were stolen in the night. I'm so sorry, I know you were so worried about that, with everything. What will this mean for your performance?" Marguerite prattled on.

Her performance. Her mind flashed to the conversation she had just overheard. "How do you know about my horses?"  

Marguerite continued, hesitating only a moment. "Your father told me," she said. "Why?"

"When?" Christine didn't like what her gut was saying.

Marguerite pulled her silk scarf closer around her. "Oh, gosh, I don't know Christine. This morning?" 

"When this morning?"

"Are you the constable?" Marguerite laughed. "Look I have to run –"

"Marguerite, please," Christine softened. "It's important. When did my father tell you about the stolen horses?"

Marguerite paled. "Christine I'm not sure – you should speak to your father –"

"When."

"After breakfast," she guessed in a small voice.

Christine's mind was a web of details, the different accounts filling in a narrative she didn't want to hear. She asked a question she already knew the answer to. "And he told you the horses were missing then?"

She nodded. Christine stared.

"I know you're lying to me," Christine said. Then, she took a leap of faith. "I saw you, last night."

Marguerite was very pale indeed. "Oh, he asked me to help him, I –" 

It was Christine's turn to freeze, her mind still racing. She had guessed her father had confided in Marguerite – she hadn't accounted for her helping . She felt sick; Marguerite’s betrayal stung worse than her fathers. She had been a confidante, friend, her biggest supporter when her father had overstepped…and now…Christine couldn’t look at her. She stared hard at the dirt and blinked hard to quell the tears. 

"Maybe it's for the best," Marguerite was nervously filling the silence, not meeting Christine’s gaze. "Christine, please, I watched you almost die out there, you were screaming in my arms, you are like a daughter to me, your father just wants you safe, he didn't want to hurt them –"

"Well I got them back," she spit the words at Marguerite. "So your plan fell through. I'm sorry I'm such a liability to everyone."

"Christine –" Marguerite called after her, but she was already stomping away from the tents.

"Christine!" Another voice called, that booming voice of Mr. Firmin. Christine wiped her tears as she pushed through the circus-goers, ignoring him. To her chagrin, the portly gentleman caught up to her. 

"Miss Daae, please, a moment?" he asked. 

Remembering his conversation with her father earlier, she stopped. If she was to be fired, better now than to have it hanging over her head. She paused, sniffling and wiping away tears. The man stood, hands stiff at his sides, his face in what she supposed was an attempt at a comforting expression. It looked more like a grimace.

"Yes?" she managed, taking gulping breaths to try to calm down. If she was fired, would she run away? She considered it. The nearest town was just over the hill; she could get a part-time job as a barkeep, the rest of the time she could perform with Raya for spare change. She had performed for her meals before, she could do it now, and hopefully make enough to board the other horses. It was this escape plan that calmed her enough to listen to what Firmin had to say. 

"Miss Daae, are you...well?" he stammered.

Christine managed a smile. "Yes, just a little tired."

"Nothing to do with the –" he trailed off, gesturing at his own back.

She sniffled and shook her head. "Accident? No, I'm fine. Er...Erik gave me some honey to help with the healing, actually."

"Oh! Well, I'm glad you two are getting along," Firmin said, a pained smile on his face.

Were they, in fact, “getting along?” Christine wondered. They seemed to only spend more time storming away from each other. Last night was certainly a shift, but it seemed to be more of a fluke than an indication that Erik would ever do anything other than barely tolerate her. 

"Oh… yes," Christine said, filling the awkward silence. "Sorry, what were you saying?"

"I didn't –" Firmin filled in. "But I do have a request to make of you," he said, pulling her away from the throngs of people and behind the food carts where the canvas of the various tents muffled the sounds of the crowds. "This is...let's say quite confidential.”

Christine stared back at him as hard as she could muster. "I heard you talking to my father," she said. If she was going out, she wanted to at least go down with everything out in the open.

"Oh never mind all that my dear," Firmin shook his head, smiling. "In fact, I am counting down the days until we can advertise you and your wonderful horses again."

"Oh?" Christine tried to stifle her surprise. 

"Which is all to say, I have a bit of a mission for you tonight. I know we have a show, but since you aren't performing yet, I was wondering..."

Christine was growing tired of this. If he wasn't firing her, what did he want? Already her day had left her weary, upset, tired…and the smells of the food stalls reminded her she hadn't had lunch yet. Maybe they would burn a sausage so she could have a treat. She deserved it, after the morning she had.  

"What do you want?" Christine said, practically tapping her foot in impatience.

"Take Erik with you – I need you two to do some reconnaissance."

"What?" It was not a word she had heard before. She frowned. 

"There's another traveling show, a town away. They have the kind of horse act I told you about – with the handler, and the special tricks, among some other acts I'm...interested in. I need someone they won't recognize – they know me, of course. But they might not suspect two young folks having a night out."  

Firmin seemed not to notice Christine’s furrowed brow. "Perfect. All you have to do is watch their big-top performance, and report back. I'll release Erik for the night for you. The show is at 7, same as ours."

Christine wanted to point out what a poor choice of words "release" was for a boy in a cage, and to that point, why was Erik in a cage in the first place, and what he meant by "keeping an eye on him," but Firmin was already lost in the crowd.

Gustave Daae was warming up in the arena when Christine returned to their tent to dress for the night. "Just two young folks on a night out," rattled in her head uncomfortably. She couldn't imagine a more odd pair – her in uncharacteristic skirts, which caught at her legs at every angle, smothering in the summer heat – and Erik was...well, Erik . She wondered if they could get even a mile from the circus without someone screaming and forcing them to return back home, defeated. She struggled with her “Sunday best,” rarely worn. Her father insisted she carry the clothing with her as they traveled, despite her rarely needing anything besides her costume and her riding clothes. The deep purple of the skirt was the least flashy color when they had purchased the fabric ages ago; she chafed in her blouse’s lace at the high neckline. 

In her frustration, she didn't hear the rustle behind her. Her father’s voice made her jump.

"Christine," he said. "I feel like I haven't seen you all day," he smiled, his eyes weary. The summer sun had browned him to a warm tan, emphasizing his age. The years on the road had been tough on them; Christine was suddenly unable to recall when her father's face wasn't laced with worry. She felt a wave of guilt about the way she had been so harsh to him – but only briefly before she remembered what he had done.

"I've been tending to the horses," she said, pointedly. "I had to make sure they weren't injured."

"Were they?"

"No, thank goodness," she said. "Erik and I were able to get them back unharmed."

"That's good," he said quietly. 

Christine shrugged, struggling with the buttons at the cuffs of her blouse. Gustave put out a hand. "May I?"

Christine extended an arm. "Fine," she acquiesced, her mouth in a firm line.

As he pushed his glasses down to see the tiny white buttons of Christine's blouse, he continued. “All dressed up? Some occasion I don’t know about?” His tone was joking, but Christine still rolled her eyes at the way he tried to monitor her every move. The tent air was suddenly more stifling than before. 

“Business,” she said. “Mr. Firmin asked me to go into town for him.” She held back a barb about why he didn’t already know, considering all the time he spent speaking to the manager. She read his tense body language, anticipated his next words. “Don’t worry, Erik will be with me the whole time.”

"He's a troubled kid," he said quietly. 

Christine flashed to the odd conversation with Firmin. "What do you mean?" she asked, looking at him before remembering her anger. She turned away.

"The world is cruel to those like him, like Marguerite," he commented, quietly. "People have to protect themselves from that, in their own ways."

Christine chafed at her father's prolonged contact. She wanted very much to rip away her hand and escape this conversation. Erik was not a safe topic, nor was Marguerite. She felt his hands leave the cotton of the sleeve and she yanked it away without a thanks.

She grabbed for her reticule, an old, worn thing of her mother’s. It was empty, but it was good for appearances. She felt her father reach out an arm to stop her. Into her hand, he pressed a few silver coins.

"For tonight. Have fun," he smiled. “You deserve it.” 

Christine's anger diluted with guilt, which only made her eyes well with tears. How could she be so angry, yet so self-loathing all at once? What couldn't she ruin, and what wasn't ruined up around her? She could barely meet her father's eyes for the love that dwelled there.  

"Thanks," she managed. He didn't move his hand from hers for a moment.

"Please, my angel," he said. "Be careful."

She turned her chin up. "I'm always careful," she said, stalking off in her swishing skirts before the tears could fall.

Chapter Text

She was already irritated by the dress by the time she reached the stables. She dreaded side-saddle; she was used to it, it was a part of her act, but something about having to ride that way, instead of electing to, bothered her immensely. The thought was so annoying that she almost missed Erik at the stable entrance.

He was wearing black, as usual, which gave him the appearance on this night of being nothing more than a shadow. His shadowy demeanor was only amplified by the black mask that covered the top half of his face, yellow eyes piercing through. What made Christine stop breathing, for a moment, was what he was wearing besides his usual shirt and trousers. Tonight, underneath a suit jacket he had donned a black waistcoat, intricately embroidered with thread which glittered in a color not unlike his eyes. The gold of a pocket watch chain caught the light of the moon rising above them. Christine was reminded of the story of dashing vampires stealing women into the night. She didn't know what she hoped was the reality. 

"Hello," he said. It was the first time they had seen each other since their tumultuous morning, and Christine blushed.

"You look nice," she offered, taking the first step in her apology. He didn't respond. She wondered for a moment if he had stopped breathing, he was standing so still. "Look, I'm sorry about earlier – "

He held up a hand. "Don't think of it," he said. "What's past is past."

She nodded, embarrassed. They stood for a moment before he pushed the flap of the tent open. "Ready?"

Christine laughed at the formality, giving a curtsy. Finally, he returned a small smile as they headed in to tack up the horses.

A handful of minutes and pinched fingers on silver buckles later they were off. Amber was doing her best beneath Erik; he choked up on the reins, holding on for dear life. Christine had already given him a few unsolicited pointers to his annoyance, so she could only make a note to give Amber a few extra cups of feed for her trouble. Christine's legs were tucked neatly to the side in her maroon skirts.

"Is that difficult?" She heard his voice behind her. It was vaguely irritating to ride with another person, someone who couldn't be trusted not to lag too far behind. Yet again, she pulled up so he could ride alongside her. Raya snorted in impatience. If she were alone, Christine would have been there already.

She looked over at him, and he nodded at the odd way she was perched on her saddle. She shrugged. "Not really. Once you get used to it. I perform side-saddle at the beginning of my act. Well, my old act," she corrected.

He paused. "Well, it's impressive to me. I can barely ride like this," he gestured to the odd way his long legs hung over the horse, the death grip on the reins. Every step of the horse sent him lurching backward or forward.  

Christine laughed. "Oh, so the quiet one has jokes!" She tilted her head. "You'll get better. For your first time on a horse alone, you're doing better than my father. He still can't ride faster than a trot without flying off the back. Something about his 'sense of balance,' he says," She smiled, but that smile soon faded.

"You were right, by the way," she said, nodding to Erik. “About him.”

"Oh," Erik offered. They rode in silence for a few moments, the only sounds the insects in the trees. Then, "I'm sorry."

She shook her head. “I should have known. It’s the same old argument. He thinks it's too risky, what I do. Now…”

Erik looked over in curiosity.

"I don't know," Christine confessed. "I know he means well, I know performing is dangerous, but...I just love it too much." 

Erik filled in. "And, you're good at it."

"And I'm good at it!" she repeated emphatically. "That's what I'm saying." She smiled at her own bravado. "And when you get into the ring and – "

"Everything else disappears, and all your thoughts go blank for a minute  – " Erik continued.

"And the energy of the room becomes your energy, and your energy is theirs, and they're captivated," Christine sighed, remembering.

"And you know you could do anything in that moment – "

"Anything," she repeated. She looked at the boy next to her. "You performed, Erik?"

"I used to, before – " he said.

Christine took a second look at her partner. She suddenly had the feeling she got when approaching a spooked horse, and she adjusted her tone from incredulous to neutral. "What did you do?"

He paused. "I was…um, a magician," he admitted. Christine had to concentrate on not changing her facial expression, though she wanted, so much, to exclaim in surprise.

"But I thought – "

"Don't get me wrong, I've done my share of freak shows." He pressed his lips into a thin, bitter line. "It's inevitable when you look like me. But circus owners love money, and so when I began to do magic tricks, they saw an opportunity to make twice as much from me."

"I'm sorry if this is offensive," Christine prefaced. "But didn't people...weren't they put off by your appearance?"

Erik let out a small sigh. "They wouldn't get too close. And I wore a mask." 

Christine remembered the black mask he wore when they performed that ill-fated day. It had added to the mystery of him, and she could see people being curious, being lured in. In her reverie, she found she had to pull on the reins to keep Raya from drifting into Amber's path.

"Were you good?" she asked, and he broke into a crooked grin, almost with the appearance of a snarl. Christine found she didn't mind. His yellow eyes gleamed down at her.

"Very good.” Christine couldn’t help but smile back. He continued, as if the dark of the woods made it easier for him to speak candidly. “Turns out, years of reading about physics, and alchemy, and anything else my mother got her hands on meant I could create my own tricks, tricks no one else could even dream of. Doves into fire, things appearing out of thin air. No one minded the mask when I could make them believe in magic, if only for a night..." he said, looking ahead of them into the dark wood. 

For a moment, Christine tried to imagine it, though it was difficult. The arrogant boy was sure of himself, but to think of him shining in front of a crowd was something else entirely. She wondered, yet again, about the enigma riding beside her.  

Quietly, she considered something. "Do you ever want something, so much, it hurts?" she asked, her voice a whisper. She had half a mind that he didn't hear her, but finally he broke the silence, his voice coarse.

"Yes."

"I want to be big." She cast a sideways glance at Erik, and he was looking back, eyes dead serious, not laughing like the silly trapeze girls, or disappointed, like Marguerite and her father. She sucked in a breath, realizing she was looking back at someone who understood what she was saying, what she meant. "I want to take over the world with my performance," she said. His eyes burnt her, and she glanced away. She played with Raya's grey mane with her free fingertips, the other hand holding the reins. "It doesn't even have to be with the horses. It's just –  sometimes I feel like no one's listening to me, not even myself." 

He made a small noise of understanding. "But when you're onstage..." he suggested. 

"Yeah," she agreed. "It's not so...unbearable. You know?" She didn't have to add that question, but she still looked over at him. He nodded. In the distance, the lamps of the traveling fair began to light their way. With that, the reality of their mission broke into their conversation.

This show was nearly twice the size of theirs, a proper fair in addition to the performances in the tents and arenas. When they came over the last hill overlooking the fairground, Christine had to remember to close her mouth as she took in the sight below them.

They dismounted their horses outside the town saloon, and Christine gave the first of her shiny coins to the barkeep to keep an eye on them. She didn't like leaving them, but it would have been too far to walk  – and she had half an idea that they would be recognized and shooed out. If so, she needed her horses ready…and so she hitched them to the outpost near the fair. 

Outside the tavern, Erik had suddenly acquired a black, wide-brimmed hat that obscured the mask he wore. Christine didn't ask how. He pulled the pocket watch from his waistcoat, checked the time, and returned it, the jacket obscuring the glimmering embroidery. A few people took a second look at the dark figure in the finely cut suit, but many were already swilling whiskey, on their way to the fair themselves. The band playing in the distance told them they were already running late to the show. 

Christine stepped off the last steps of the tavern's raised porch and grinned at Erik. It had been a while since she had been out at night, and she was feeling the excitement of the crowd heading towards the circus. Erik seemed to freeze a moment, as if he were suddenly put off balance. 

"So." She flounced towards him.  "Shall we? I’ve got the money Firmin gave us for the tickets."

It was his turn to give an unnerving smile. To Christine's surprise, he reached for her arm. He leaned in, pulling her face towards the obscure darkness of his hat's shadow. Christine held her breath. 

"Come with me," he whispered with a snarl into her ear, pulling her deeper into the queues of people winding from the little town to the circus.

Christine barely had time to take in the lights or identify all of the new smells from the food carts as Erik pulled her through the crowd, his long fingers in a vise grip on her bicep. At first, she resisted, but soon she just let her feet move in step with his smooth movement through the crowds, cutting lines to get closer and closer to the big top now looming above them. 

"What are we –" she began to say when he pulled her with some degree of force against one of the beams of the tent, enveloping her with his black jacket. He held her there, frozen, his entire body covering hers from view. He glanced behind him, and Christine could see a man, quite obviously a circus worker, peering around, a coil of rope on his arm. 

“Is he gone?” he breathed, his hand still gripping the tentpole just above her head, framing her face with his arm. 

Having him so close to her, she was beginning to learn, had a startling effect on her. She was a little woozy, and she took an extra breath before she nodded. 

For a moment, fear flashed across his eyes. He closed them, as if shaking some thought from his mind. Christine looked over his shoulder to confirm that the man had indeed vanished. By the time she looked back, Erik had already adopted his usual apathetic expression. 

“Who was that?” she asked. 

He ignored her question. "Are you all right?" he said, though his impatient tone was not exactly caring. She nodded, and he took her hand, again to her surprise. He pulled her down the side of the tent, leaving the wide, bright opening of the main entrance behind them. 

"Erik, the entrance is over –"

"Change of plans. We're not going through the entrance," he said, not bothering to turn around. He seemed deep in thought, eyes roving the more deserted area towards the back of the big top. Through the canvas, Christine could hear the throngs beginning to fill bleachers. Erik was still holding her hand, pulling her behind him. She had to jog to keep up as he skated his free hand over the taut fabric, as if looking for something. She was just about to interrupt him again when he held up a hand. He placed a finger over his lips, and Christine's eyes went wide. She nodded.

He slipped his fingers through a nearly invisible gap between two pieces of canvas in the tent wall, and disappeared. A moment later, his glowing eyes appeared.  

"Come on," he said, voice so low she could only read his lips. She stepped tentatively behind him, heart racing. When she had imagined going to a rival circus, to see their show, to report back, she had pictured them going in through the main entrance, buying a ticket, maybe perusing the concessions. She certainly hadn't imagined sneaking in without paying alongside a boy in a mask, who seemed very comfortable breaking the rules. She felt a light touch at the back of her arm and she jumped in the darkness. The touch urged her forward and the tent flap closed behind her.

"Oh," she whispered. They were under the bleachers, seeing the show through the audience's legs. He moved away from her, the place where his hand had just been seeming unnaturally cold now that his touch was gone. She shivered, though the tent was stifling. He was a few yards away, looking out, his dark mask illuminated by bands of light. The warm glow caught the ochre sheen of the fabric mask, the sharp, alabaster angle of his jaw, the sinews of his neck flexing in concentration at the action ahead of them. Without removing his gaze from what he was seeing, he reached out a hand, beckoning her to a better place to stand.  

Christine followed him, suddenly finding herself very close. Erik took a step back, leaving a small square foot of space for her to stand in front of him. She could feel his every movement right behind her as he peered through the slats above her. It took her a few moments to redirect her attention to the performances already underway in the big top: clowns, dogs dancing on their hind legs. She let out a laugh at one little brown puppy, twirling incessant circles in a little tutu.  

"Can we do that?" she asked, whispering up at her towering companion.

He took a moment, as if honestly considering. "Can we make a horse-sized tutu?" he murmured, and she let out a laugh before clapping her hand over her mouth. She cast a wide-eyed gaze up at the bleachers, praying no one heard. In the chaos of the audience, her laugh was swallowed up by everyone else's.

The dogs disappeared, to light applause. She heard the hooves before they came into view, and in spite of herself, she looked up at Erik in excitement.

A fleet of white horses came out, with several riders. Christine sucked in a breath; their feathers, their costumes, the matching horses, how would she compete? She couldn't take her eyes off of them. In the center, another performer kept the horses consistent, his long whip urging them forward. Christine pulled on her partner's sleeve and pointed. He nodded, eyes trained on the performance. 

The riders were flipping deftly on the horses, standing on the saddles, leaping from horse to horse with ease and to thunderous applause. Christine felt she could go green with envy at the spry little women on the ponies, contorting themselves in all types of shapes on the saddles. Christine gasped, anticipating their mistakes that never came, leaning forward to see better.

Behind her, Erik was frozen, trying to absorb this new routine, to evaluate it. He wished he could take it apart like an old clock and analyze it before reassembling it; choreography wasn't a machine, so all he could hope for was to note each movement, each part, and evaluate it later in his mind. 

It didn't help that Christine was pulling at him, pointing things out. It wasn't the actual gestures of pointing at certain strategies: that, actually, was helpful to his study. What was not so helpful was the little hand grabbing for his if the acrobats did a difficult trick, or the pulling at his sleeve, or the leaning back into him. That, it seemed, was very distracting.  

The band changed the music, something in ¾ time, as some of the acrobats began to prepare for a trick. Erik watched, wishing they didn’t have to hide in the shadows of the bleachers so they could properly see. No, no, it was too risky. Next to him, the impish creature clutching his arm held her breath as the acrobat did another handstand on the saddle. Then, though, instead of returning to a seat in the saddle, she pushed off with her hands, curling into a neat somersault. Christine hugged his arm to her; if she noticed the choking sound that emitted from his throat, she made no sign of it.  The acrobat plummeted to the ground and the crowd held their collective breath. She was upside down, her head heading for the earth.  

Then, at the last moment, the neatly coiffed hair of the acrobat hovered alongside the thundering hooves of the horse. Somehow, she was holding onto the saddle, her feet pointed high above her, her head upside down towards the earth. At his elbow, Christine let out a yelp of surprise. She released her death-grip on him to applaud wildly as the horses trotted out of the arena.

In the fresh air outside of the big top after the show ended, Christine was ecstatic.

"Did you see that?" she gaped at Erik, who was still rubbing his arm for the circulation to return. He managed a nod. "There must be something with the saddle...how can you do all that – her head was so near the hooves I thought for sure she was going to crash...Oh, Firmin was right, I've never seen anything like it! Have you?" She turned, where Erik patiently listened. 

He shook his head. "It was something. Should we –" he gestured towards the exit as Christine's stomach growled. She looked up, pouting slightly.

"It's still so early!" she protested. 

“Firmin will want me back in his sights,” he reasoned.

She frowned. “But you’re already out. What will another hour do, surely? Besides, we have that ticket money. It certainly won’t do to return with it.” 

“Won’t your father–” 

“I’m not a child,” she snapped. “Let him worry. Come on.” She turned on her heel and headed deeper into the fairground, the crowds of people laughing and exploring swallowing her up. 

Erik sighed and took a careful look around before he followed her through the crowd. 

Two hot sandwiches later (Erik had argued he wasn't hungry; Christine forced him to eat, arguing he had earned it since it was, after all, the money Firmin gave them to buy the tickets) they continued to walk through the fairground, the picture of innocence after their illegal affair at the big top. 

"May I?" Christine gestured at his arm, and he stood, stock still for a moment. She filled the awkward moment. "We need to blend in," she explained. "Just two people on a night out." 

When he still didn't move, she looped her hand through the crook of his arm and pulled him further through the flowing crowd, towards the carnival games. Erik tried not to notice how nice it felt to walk, in public, with such a lovely person on his arm; nor how his heart sped up when she squeezed his arm to point out a game. Almost immediately, his mind crashed into his lifting spirits, reminding him incessantly: it was just for show, don't read into anything. How could someone possibly tolerate him, let alone appreciate his company? He was just a necessary evil, a requisite burden she had to carry with her in order to enjoy her freedom. He closed his odd eyes for a moment beneath his mask; of course, how could he have forgotten.

Christine had pulled him to one of the games. He grimaced and tried to avoid eye contact with the barker; he was sure the game was rigged.

"I have wonderful aim," she boasted to the barker, who laughed and dared her to try. Erik winced again. Behind the barker were brightly painted ceramics: deer, kittens, and even miniature horses. Her eye kept flitting to the little animals, and he understood immediately why she was attracted to the booth. As he suspected, the bottles on the little stools a few yards away seemed a bit too comfortable, too neat, collecting dust. He stood back as Christine wound up her arm, tossing the ball towards the milk bottles. She was right: her aim was good. He felt the corners of his mouth quirk up at her confidence. Of course; what wasn't she good at?  

To her frustration, the ball ricocheted against the bottles, which didn't budge. Erik ground his teeth as her dazzling smile was dashed.

"Better luck next time sweetheart," the portly barker chuckled. "Unless your beau here would like to try to win for you.”

Erik watched Christine blush, felt himself redden in anger. For a moment, he could see the barker second guess his taunting of the mysterious masked man. In his peripheral vision, he could see Christine staring, her glance the only thing keeping him from leaping over the stall and reminding the man of the risks of swindling. 

"Fine," Erik held out a hand, and the man held out his for his payment. Christine put a penny into his palm and Erik took the ball, already annoyed at the outcome that hadn't yet happened. 

Christine wasn’t the only one with good aim. He watched the ball leave his hand and it too ricocheted. The man suppressed a laugh as he shifted away from the couple, moving on to the next group of suckers. Christine shook her head.

"I hit it," she glowered. "So did you!"

Erik suppressed his surprise at how naturally she resumed taking his arm as they moved through the circus. He could feel his face, hot through the mask, still recovering from the indignity of the carnival barker and his crooked game. "It was rigged," he said, shaking his head.

Christine sniffed. "They shouldn't be allowed to do that," She sighed, her thumb and forefinger worrying the fabric of Erik's shirt. For someone only keeping up appearances, she seemed very comfortable on his arm. Quiet, Erik, his mind retorted. Remember who you are.

Christine sniffed again, still irritated. "I didn't even want that stupid ceramic horse."

"Really?" Erik leaned closer. It was funny, the nearer she got to him, the easier it was for him to be close to her. Before tonight, he had no idea what it felt like to have a girl on his arm, to hold someone's hand, to slow his long legs to adjust for her pace so they could walk in tandem. Now, he had no problem leaning in to brush a curl behind her ear. She froze, her brown eyes on his, not moving a muscle as his fingers pushed her hair back. In one fluid motion, a bright little ceramic pony appeared in his hand. Her eyes widened.  

"Erik!" she exclaimed, grabbing at the horse. "How did you –  She looked back at the barker, the stand behind them. "You didn't – 

He smirked. "He won't miss it." He released the horse to her and continued walking. "Besides, you did hit the target."

Christine's mind was a swarm of feelings, and she couldn't make head nor tails of them. So instead she focused on the little horse in her hand, and the confident young man she walked with, and ignored the occasional stares and whispers. She felt warm, the summer night buzzing with possibility. It was far away from overprotective fathers, dishonest friends, and endless chores. She sighed and leaned against her companion's arm.  

They continued along the thoroughfare this way, Christine only stopping them at the penny candy stand. She ignored Erik's shaking head as she filled a bag with jelly beans, gumdrops, and vanilla sticks.

"What candy do you like, Erik?" she asked as she explored the rock candy for the best shade of pink.

"I don't know," he admitted.

“What?”

"My, er...I wasn't allowed to have candy."

Christine's jaw dropped and she grabbed the last of the coins from her father, thrusting them into the vendor's hand. "Well, you'll have to try it all!" she exclaimed, stuffing chocolates and lemon drops into the sack as well. 

They found a place on the fairgrounds with picnic tables. Christine sat cross-legged sideways on the bench, beckoning for Erik to sit next to her. She spoke as she sucked on the rock candy in her own mouth.

"Jelly bean," she gestured, handing him the small orange sweet. He took a second look at her, skeptical. How many times had he stared at the candy shop window in Rouen in his youth, only to be pulled away by his mother? He closed his eyes and popped the candy into his mouth, savoring the way the sugar bloomed on his tongue.

"You can chew that one," Christine coaxed. "It won't hurt you," she joked. He rolled his eyes. "What do you think?" 

"I think," he considered his words carefully, "I like candy very much." Christine grinned. 

As the night wore on, the clientele of the fair changed gradually. The children left for bed as the band continued to play and the ale continued to flow from tankards for the adults. Erik watched Christine stow their remaining hoard of candy in her bag and sighed a little as they sat, watching people dance, surrounded by tipsy adults singing along to the fiddles and drums. 

"Well,” she said. “We're out of money. I suppose we should head back.”  

He could feel her disappointment. Goaded onward by the sugar rush and the drunken atmosphere, he found himself gesturing for her to stay where she sat. He disappeared towards the makeshift bar: a few boards on a barrel and a large German gentleman preventing any unsolicited sampling of the beer. 

Christine tapped her foot to the music, watching the whirling skirts of the women and laughing along as people dipped and moved haphazardly to the music. She loved the sound of the folksy violin, and she sighed again. She loved her father, and the recent fight between them had hurt her. She missed the late-night bonfires, the evenings she would sing and her father would play the fiddle. It seemed all they did these days was argue, and she wished something would change. Maybe when she got back she would apologize. She had purchased a few extra pieces of molasses at the candy stall, after all, thinking of him. She hoped he would accept the olive branch.

She watched Erik walk towards her with two metal tankards of ale, his eyes low to the ground. She smiled and when he saw her, his shoulders relaxed slightly. She internally laughed at the fact she once thought him arrogant; it was so obvious that beneath the flimsy facade, his bark obscured a deep anxiety. That much was clear tonight. She couldn't believe how many people had stopped to stare at his mask or go so far as to point or whisper loudly as they passed. She felt an instinct to protect him, to throw her arms around him and tell everyone to back off. Even now, she had to consciously resist standing and meeting him halfway, so maybe people would see her with him, see that he was just another person enjoying the night. He ducked his head as he sat next to her, passing her the metal cup.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "How did you– "

He put a finger up to his lips. Christine shook her head, but sipped the cool beer nonetheless. It was welcome after the salt and sweet of the foods they had had.

She lifted her mug, caught up in the spirit of the drinking songs being sung. "Cheers," she gestured. Erik hesitated before pressing his cup to hers. "Partners in crime," she laughed. His yellow eyes flashed and she grinned.

The music changed to a reel and people cheered. Couples grabbed their partners from their seats and headed towards the dance floor. Perhaps it was the ale, or the atmosphere, but she gave Erik a wry grin and his eyes widened.

"Don't you dare– " he threatened.

"Come on!" Christine leapt up, her skirts already in her free hand and Erik's hand in hers as she pulled the reluctant skeleton towards the forming line. In the haze of dancing and ale, no one seemed to mind the odd couple joining them.  

Erik yelled over the cacophony of music and cheers. "I don't know how to– "

"This one's easy!" Christine yelled back, clapping along with the others. She put his hand on her waist and he pulled away, as if it burned. She scowled. "Come on, I don't bite," she said as she returned his hand to her side. Christine had grown up in the circus; she was being handed about the circus crew from infancy, wore trousers, was comfortable being thrown and flipped by men and women alike. She had very little patience for her partner's sudden puritanical attitude towards touching her. Hadn't they walked arm in arm just a few moments before? 

Erik wasn't a religious man; as far as he was concerned, God had forsaken him long ago. Yet he found himself praying to a higher power that he would get through this drunken dance without making a total fool of himself. The ale swirled in his stomach and a little in his head –  the only reason he was still standing here because of the demanding dance partner ordering him about.  

"You hear the beat, right?"

He nodded. At that, she took his hand and thrust them through the web of dancers, skipping them forward and backwards. Erik scanned the crowd, trying to catch his bearings as his legs tangled and untangled.

"That's not what they're doing!" he yelled, indicating another dancing couple.

Christine laughed. "Relax! It's about having fun!" She skipped them forward again. "Spin!" She laughed again at his bewildered expression.

Erik wasn't sure if it was the alcohol or some sort of mental break, but he actually found that he was enjoying himself . He even let out his odd, barking laugh when Christine released his hand and twirled him outward and back in some made-up dance move. He learned that dancing was only confusing to him because he had never done it. Now, he could see the appeal; having Christine be so close to him as she twirled into his chest was an additional reward. 

His mind was on her, and worrying about what his feet were doing, and listening to the music, and avoiding crashing into other couples, so much so that he almost didn't notice the movement near the makeshift bar. Almost.

Without changing his movements, he pulled Christine closer. Her breathing hitched as he leaned over her, not pausing their skipping between and through other couples. "Don't look now, but we've got company."

Christine's eyes widened, but she didn't stop dancing. She smiled up at him, but her eyes were alarmed. "The man from before?" she said, without breaking step.

He nodded imperceptibly. "Two more behind me." 

"Why are they following us?" she asked, her mouth barely moving. The music was winding down, and Erik lifted his arm so she could twirl them farther from the men encircling the dance floor. “Do they know who we are?” 

“No,” Erik hissed. “But they know who I am.” 

Chapter Text

The reel came to a close, and they stopped, turning towards the band and clapping with the rest of them. "Okay, they’re following us. What do we do?" Christine hissed between her teeth.

"See those two food stalls ahead?" Erik said, gripping her waist with insistent force. "Head for those. I'll catch up."

She whirled around, eyes wide. "But-"

"Go, now," he said, all mirth gone, his tone serious. Christine took a last look at him and ducked back through the dancers, disappearing into the increasingly rowdy crowd.

Erik sucked in a breath as he walked, slowly, hands in his pockets, away from the men. They sped up behind him. How could he have been so stupid, putting himself on display like that? To them, Christine was just another townsperson, some girl from the area. But a masked man…he had taken a chance he couldn’t afford. 

He ducked beneath a caravan, disappearing from the men's view for a moment as he crawled through the thick summer meadow grass towards where he had told Christine to hide. He could see the men's boots approaching where he crept, and he held his breath. 

He could do it; three men would be a challenge, but he could take them. But never in front of so many people: there would be a panic, he could be ambushed by a mob. And Christine couldn't see that- he had had a hard enough time convincing her he hadn't killed his mother, he wasn't about to undo all that work now.

The boots moved left, Christine was hiding to the right. He moved, cat-like, out of the caravan's shadow. Christine was crouched, petrified, pressed against the stall wall. He put a finger to his lips and she nodded, her face inches from his.

"Come on," he said and pulled her into the swelling crowd.

"Hey!" He heard a man bellow, and he didn't turn to check who it was for. They broke into a run, Christine's boots pounding against the dirt as fast as his, adrenaline coursing. They pushed through the indignant townspeople, who scowled and called after them. He could hear Christine panting next to him as he carved a path through the people, half a step ahead, anticipating the gaps in the crowd they could slip through.

Christine felt her arm jerk – hard – to the right and she let out a yelp as her shoulder was yanked and she fell into quiet darkness. Her eyes widened as she desperately tried to adjust to the dim light of the circus tent.

"May I help you?" Christine heard a warbled voice ask behind them, and she froze. Erik had slipped in front of her, obscuring her view of the voice's owner. Outside the tent, they could hear men yelling. 

"I think they went over there," one shouted. 

Erik was still breathing hard, his hands on his hips. He reached up to remove his hat.

"Please, I ask for sanctuary for only a few minutes," Erik said, voice low.

"Who are you?" Another voice, suddenly behind Christine, made her jump. An incredibly gaunt woman, holding a lantern, stood, a knitted shawl hanging from bony arms. Christine stared. Her limbs were covered in intricate ink, tattoos from her shaved skull to her fingertips and all down her legs. She wondered what else was drawn beneath her clothing. 

She forced herself to look away and followed the startled gaze of the woman. She turned to see Erik had removed his mask, the warped skin of his head especially stark in the low lantern light.  

"Please, may we hide here for just a moment?" he asked, mask and hat in hand.

"I think we have room for two more," Christine heard the voice behind Erik sound, and she saw another person step out into the lamplight. The smallest man she had ever seen, leaning heavily on a cane, took a step closer, peering curiously at Christine. “Please, join us. We were just finishing supper.” 

They walked a few feet, slowly, behind the man who moved deceptively quickly towards a burning fire. As they grew closer, more faces came into Christine’s vision: a grinning man who seemed unable to not make such an expression; a miniature woman even smaller than the man who led them, a wizened old man with a long beard and gnarled hands. As the faces turned to look up at the newcomers, Christine tried not to stare, to remain as neutral as her partner next to her. Now, she understood. 

Erik had brought them to the Freak Show. The man with the cane beckoned to them, and they followed him slowly to the back of the tent. Beyond the people, the back of the tent stood partly open to the deep, black forest beyond the fairground. The quiet stillness was startling. 

There was a small campfire burning, surrounded by a variety of people sitting on stools and hay bales. It seemed the man with the cane was the leader; no one questioned him when he suggested people make room in the circle for two more. Christine found herself sharing a seat with a man three times her size. He looked down and gave her an enormous, toothless grin and she returned the gesture. Across from her, Erik met her gaze with reassurance. A whiskey bottle was passed in a welcoming manner. Christine balked at the shared bottle, but Erik's expression suggested she not refuse, and she sipped at it, the moonshine stinging her nose. 

"Where did you come from?" a man asked. She kept her eyes down from his elaborately pierced face and deferred to Erik.  

"We're at the circus the town over," he admitted.

The man nodded and grinned, revealing a row of sharpened, pointed teeth. Christine took another nervous swig of whiskey. "Spying on the competition?"

Erik gave a slight smile. "You could say that," he said.

It was cool in the tent, but Christine soon warmed from the whiskey and fire. Erik seemed relaxed, though these were total strangers; there must be some solace in knowing you were around others who knew what it was like to be stared at, to be ridiculed. As he shared what it was like over at their circus: the food was fine, the conditions liveable, the other “freaks” welcoming – she felt a small wave of pride for her circus. She hadn't paid much attention to the conditions beyond her own, but it seemed these people were having a much harder time than her friends at their circus camp. The glow of the fire emphasized Erik's haunting, skeletal appearance, but Christine found it wasn't so startling to look at him when he was so animated, smiling and laughing along with everyone else. 

"And what are you doing here?" asked a man next to her, his left hand a metal hook that glinted with the light. He directed his accented words to Christine, who blushed at the attention. "Don't tell me: has our friend here kidnapped you and kept you in his sinister lair?"

Christine had to laugh, and Erik scowled back. "No, no, it's not like that..." she clarified, still giggling at the idea. "He's my partner in our act," she said. For the first time, she didn't mind describing the show as something other than just “hers.”

"And what act is that, horrifying skeleton chases beautiful woman?" the small man with the cane joked. Christine wrinkled her nose. Erik was laughing, but she wasn't sure she cared for the remark. Is that what people thought when they saw the two of them?

"Well, his..." she chose her words, unsure what to call his face, the mask he wore. He so rarely spoke of it himself. "That’s not really part of the act. I do acrobatics on horses, and he makes sure I don't fall and die," she joked. Erik turned to look at her and her stomach dropped. Had she made a mistake? "Erik is actually quite a talented magician," she said. The group made noises of approval.

"Go on, then, show us something," the leader suggested.

Christine watched as Erik picked up a burning stick from the fire without being harmed, extinguishing it without touching it. He waved his hand again over the stick and some sleight of hand she couldn’t catch made the stick disappear from view. He held up his hands and the others nodded; some clapped. He had seemed happy to comply, but suddenly weary. Christine watched him carefully over the flames.

“Show off,” she smiled. He rolled his eyes. In his other hand, he fidgeted with the “vanished” twig.

A whistle from the tattooed woman standing guard at the tent opening put the group on edge. A massive hand came over Christine’s head, forcing her to crouch in her seat. Across the fire, Erik left his perch on the bale of hay to sit on the dirt floor, the people around him moving infinitesimally closer. 

“Careful now,” the small man said, not moving from where he perched and smoked his pipe idly. 

Christine heard low, angry voices at the entrance, though she could not make out the words. Had they been found out? She stole a glance at Erik, who seemed rather pale indeed as he stared, motionless at the fire. They knew him – how? From what she could surmise, it was not a happy acquaintance.

The tattooed woman stayed at her post, stood between them and the group around the fire. Christine heard her remind the men, loudly, that they were praying. Christine realized they had been seated in a way that the others blocked them quite substantially from the tent opening and kept them hidden. After some quieter conversation, finally the men at the tent entrance crossed themselves and left without noticing the two new members of the freak show at the fire circle. The leader nodded to the woman. 

"Well," he nodded. "Thank you for gracing us with your presence tonight. I wish you luck in your endeavors. I'm afraid we must ask you to leave; soon this tent will be inspected for the night, and we wouldn't want you to be discovered." 

Christine followed Erik's lead as he slightly bowed and wished everyone a good night. She thought, for a moment, she heard him offer his "services" to them, should they need anything. She stumbled slightly, the late night and the whiskey hitting her all at once, and Erik held her elbow as they stepped out of the back of the tent.

They walked in silence through the quieting circus grounds and back towards the tavern. It was funny, the time in the tent had reminded her how very different they were, yet she had never felt closer to him. To see him there, his face open, without bravado or pretense, made her once again wonder what life he had led to make him so closed off. Not for the first time, she tried to imagine the dark-haired mystery woman at the center of all the rumors; what was his mother like? The comment about the candy had been innocuous, but telling; it only added more questions about the quiet boy who seemed, at times, much older than his age. 

They approached the saloon, which still stood, lop-sided and lit up in the dead of night. Thankfully, Raya and Amber were still at the hitching post, waiting for them. Christine leaned against the grey mare.

"I could fall asleep right here," she said.

Erik let out a low chuckle. "Not yet," he said. He paused near Amber's side, and Christine was reminded of how green he was to riding. She held Amber steady as he swung onto the horse, a little crooked in the saddle.

Erik rolled his eyes as she mounted Raya easily. "Show off," he muttered. She responded with a grin.  

They steered the horses back towards the main road to their own camp, the path quiet except for the summer insects singing.

"That was certainly an adventure," Christine said as she stretched on Raya. She wondered if she could lie back and still direct her through the trees: she wasn't going to chance it.

Erik opened his mouth to respond when the crack of a shotgun went off behind them. Amber took off like a comet through the black trees, Erik holding on for dear life. Christine kicked Raya hard after them as another shot sang past her ear.  

"Hold on, Erik!" she called after him, the horse and rider a blur just ahead through the trees. “Shit.” Those same men raced behind them, still intent on them. Surely sneaking into a circus show did not warrant this reaction. She had never seen Erik look so frightened as he had been by the fire, when they were almost caught. What had he done to earn such wrath? 

Raya galloped full-tilt through the trees; Christine turned to see two horses in the distance. Their riders were two of the men from the circus, hard on their heels. Another shot rang out, too close. Raya was no longer fully under Christine's control: she was running for her own life, and her rider’s.

The shouts of the men grew louder. Christine urged her horse faster, the thick woods in the dead of night making it hard to maneuver as she tried to keep Erik in sight. Amber was having no trouble winding through the trees, the gunfire spooking her into a speed even Raya had trouble maintaining. She prayed Erik could keep his seat.

"Come on, girl," Christine whispered. The men were close enough now that beneath their shouting, Christine could hear the hoofbeats of their horses. 

Then, ahead, Christine saw it.

"Oh no, no no no no no," she hissed. The roaring river dividing the land appeared in front of them. The water surged, small trees torn from their roots by the wicked current of the overflowing rapids. No rider worth his salt would chance it. No rider, that is, unless they were being pursued by men with guns. 

She could hear the hoofbeats behind her, knew there were only a few seconds before they would be on them. Her horses would be taken from her, Erik would be beaten – or worse. 

She looked at the black current once more before she gritted her teeth and kicked Raya into the rushing waters. 

"Erik?" she called. He was nowhere to be found. "Erik!" Another bullet hurtled through the trees. Her blood ran cold. Was he hurt? Was Amber shot, or hurt? Had she bucked him off? Erik was all lean muscle and bone; she didn’t want to find out how easily such long limbs could snap under a falling horse. 

Then she heard him. "Christine!" 

Amber stood downriver from Raya, her front hooves almost touching the coursing river, the whites of her eyes shining in the dark night in fear. Her rider looked down at the water with a similar fear, white-knuckled fingers clutching the reins. 

She breathed. He was still all right.

"Get across!" she called back. "They might not follow us!"   

“How?” Erik yelled, his horse snorting and trying to edge backward up the bank. 

“Erik,” she called. “You have to – ” she struggled. “Be in charge!” Christine's skirts tore at her waist in the water. They needed to move, they needed to get out of this current before it took all of them with it, before debris collided with muscle and bone and ripped them all down to a watery grave. 

“But-” 

“Stop being so afraid of everything and DO IT,” she screamed over the roaring waters. They didn’t have enough time, the men would be pulling him from his seat before the river did, the butt of a shotgun against his temple rather than rocks and branches knocking him unconscious. She couldn’t panic, could not help him, Raya’s footing was already unsteady in the water and she was threatening to plunge them both under herself. 

She heard herself scream again, and again, felt time slow, watched him glance behind him to the men fast approaching. 

“Now!” 

He kicked the horse and the whites of Amber’s eyes flashed in the moonlight as the horse lurched forward, plunged into the coursing water under her rider. 

Christine was suddenly reminded of a verse from her very brief time with organized religion: the Revelations had always intrigued her; the four horsemen always a welcome image to the wild horseback-riding child stuck in the pews of the tiny chapel in Perros-Guirec every Sunday. 

With the moonlight behind him obscuring the fear in his eyes, Erik suddenly became Death himself on his steed, plunging through the river with pale, skeletal limbs holding the reins above the spray. She held her breath. 

The men behind him stumbled forward, their horses balking, unable to be controlled. They did not dare the rapids themselves, nor the intimidating figure cleaving the dark water ahead of them. One man took a shot at them, hitting the water right by Raya's leg. She snorted and pushed hard against the current to pull her and Christine onto the sandy bank across the river. Amber was already on shore, a pale Erik staring back in shock. Another shot, this one much farther from them. Christine gestured at Erik to continue on.

“GO!”

He looked back, eyes wild.

“I’m right behind you!” she called. Horse and rider disappeared into the brush ahead of her as Raya scrambled up the bank. Christine risked a glance over her shoulder. The men were busy yelling at each other, dismounted and holding their reins, their boots slipping down on the muddy riverbank. 

A final gunshot, a dozen yards away, a yell, curses. Two men in the river scrambling for the weeds as the current threatened to engulf them both while their horses, now loose, raced into the night away from them. Christine watched from the bank as one, then the other, disarmed and weighed down with mud and water stumbled back up the bank and after their mounts. 

She leapt off of Raya to drag her up the bank, her lungs burning. She pushed through the brush, calling for Erik, looking for the red mare. She had a momentary vision of him knocked off the horse by some errant branch, bones broken from the fall. Fear once again seized her chest. 

“Christine!” he called through the trees and she burst into a clearing to see him dismounted as well, Amber’s great chest heaving with the exertion. 

“What,” Christine gasped, trying to catch her breath. “Erik, what was that?” 

“Are you –” 

“I’m fine,” she snapped. “What I need to know is what the fuck was that?” 

“I don’t –” 

“Erik.” 

He opened his mouth and closed it. He turned away, running a hand through his wet hair. Finally, he sighed. “Fine.” 

“Fine?” Christine crossed her arms. “That was not fine –” 

“No, I mean…I’ll tell you.” 

“You will.” 

“Yes.” 

“The truth.” 

“Yes.” He looked up at the stars, closed his eyes. “Yes, I’ll tell you.”

Christine glared at him and shivered in her soaked skirts despite herself. Erik gestured at her clothes. “We should make camp, first.” 

“We can ride through,” she said. “We have to get home.” 

“Then we’ll be riding all night,” he said. 

“How do you know –”

"Geometry," he said. He gave a little shrug. He seemed weary, smaller. "And after you told me about the stars, I did a bit of my own research. We're ten miles off course."

Christine didn't have the energy to respond with a sharp retort; she was too angry at the situation, at the half-truths that lay between her and the boy standing across from her. Instead, she looked down at her soaking clothes.

"Fine. We make camp," she said. "No use trying to right our course now. Then – the truth. I’m tired of the mysteries, Erik."

Erik busied himself tending to a small campfire as she removed the wringing wet maroon skirt. She stepped out of it, hung it over a low-hanging branch.

"You should get out of your wet clothes," she suggested. He gave a faint nod, deep in thought.

Erik sat back from the fire. He had removed his coat and the lovely brocade vest, but stopped there. His wet shirt stuck to his skin as he put another log on the fire. Christine swished her underskirts towards the flames, trying to even begin drying them. The night was cold, and she didn't want to catch a chill.

The horses grazed within Christine's sightline, and she stepped gingerly past the campfire. Raya snorted as Christine passed a hand over her velvet snout. “Good girl,” she whispered. “You saved us.”  She looked at Amber. “Two cups of grain for you when we get back,” she patted her neck and the horse snorted indignantly. “And don’t tell father.”

She returned to the fire with the saddle blankets and her canteen. She tossed the latter to Erik, who caught it into his chest.

"It's just water," she said. "But we probably need some, after all that." When he finished taking a drink, she tossed him a blanket. She laid hers out as close to the fire she could manage and lay down, her head towards Erik.

Above them through the trees, the stars shone down on them. She could see the Dippers, both big and little, alongside the Pleiades and Cassiopeia. Christine lay on her back, her hands on her stomach, the fire crackling next to her. She remembered the last time she had camped, with her circus on the way to the next town. When those yellow eyes now stealing glances at her had been menacing. She knew, if she fell asleep, she would not be in danger from him, or wolves, or bandits. That thought lulled her to close her eyes when she asked the question that had been itching at her.

"Erik?"

"Hmm?"

"Who were those men chasing us?" she said, her eyes closed, ready as she could be. She didn't want to see the words land, breaking the odd ease they had settled into after all the chaos. 

He cleared his throat, poking at the flame. "It’s a long story."

“Erik,” she said, her voice stern. 

Christine swung herself into a seated position. The warmth of the fire was making her too hot, and she untied the knot at her neck, baring her throat to the cool air. She reached for her canteen and took a drink. It was already nearly empty. She swirled the last of it, drank the dregs and cast it aside.

"I'll refill it," Erik grabbed the canteen and was already moving away from the fire before she could protest.

He stalked through the woods, barely cognizant of his invented errand. All he knew was that he had to get away from the half-dressed, gold-kissed girl with the interrogative eyes before he did something rash, like make a fool of himself again. 

What was he doing? He went over the evening’s events for the umpteenth time in his head. Just because a girl didn't scream in horror at the sight of him, he had developed delusions of what they might be to each other.  Friends? Erik didn’t have friends. Why couldn't he just accept the scraps of kindness she was tossing his way like the undeserving monster he was. 

The cool air down by the stream gave him time to relax his muscles, the sweat on his back chilling to a cool dampness. He stooped to fill the canteen, her questions swirling. Why had he promised to be truthful? What would the truth do besides alienate her? What good would it do, to unburden himself? He was sure she had so many other things to worry about besides poor Erik.

You promised , his mind reminded him. 

What if he told her the truth? What was the worst that could happen?  

She would run away, like everyone else. He thought of her the way he had left her just then, waiting at the fire, her brown hair turned golden in the flame's light. A condemned man’s last memory of beauty before the gallows. 

Or she might trust me, he considered. To earn the trust of someone like her...he couldn't even imagine it, because it had never happened. He had never earned someone's trust, had barely kept his mother’s. 

By the time he returned with the full canteen, he had made his decision. Consequences be damned. When the moment came, he would know what to do.

She saw him coming back through the trees and breathed a sigh of relief. She lifted the bag of leftover candy and smiled at him.

“Found the extra,” she said, an olive branch to his storming off. She patted the saddle blanket next to her. “Sit with me?” 

He was all limbs as he folded his legs on the saddle blanket. She extended her hand with the bag, a handler approaching a horse that had only just begun to trust her. Thankfully, he took the bait, accepted the toffee and stared into the fire. 

She did not ask for the truth again; instead, she waited as the candy dwindled between them. Erik scowled. "I think I may not like candy so much, anymore."

Christine wrinkled her nose, putting the bag away. "I know. You can only have so many jellybeans." She finished the candy in her mouth and yawned.

"You should get some rest," Erik said, moving away. Christine had to resist the urge to pull him back to their shared blanket. "I'll take first watch." 

"No, no, I can do it-" Christine said, but she was already settling herself back onto the blanket, laying on her side.

"Right," he smiled. "Goodnight."

He settled back against a tree, his own saddle blanket between his fingers. The dying fire warmed her skin, and every muscle in her body yearned for sleep. No, not yet. She was waiting for him to make good on his promise to speak. 

He was quiet for so long that Christine worried for a moment that he had fallen asleep. She was only awake from the candy, the sugar coating her teeth. She dragged her tongue over her front teeth and waited for a sign of life.

"Once, there was a boy in Rouen," he said. The pretense of a story fell away as his voice grew somber and sad. "They said his mother must have done something wrong, to have a child like that. They only lived there for five years before the stress got too much for her."  

"They moved to another little house, but it was difficult to raise a child who couldn't go to school and also try to work. It was even more difficult when the child had already read every book in his mother's collection several times over. When the child was bored, he tried to cook for himself. When the little house burned down, the town took it as an omen that the child was from the devil. They left again." 

"Before the child, she was a singer on the vaudeville stage. After the child, she was a seamstress, and a cook, and a maid. Her hair dulled, her eyes grew tired. One day, the child escaped the house while she worked and was nearly struck by a horse and carriage. Maybe that would have been best for everyone."

Christine almost forgot to breathe, she was listening so hard. She dared not move, to break the spell. She marveled at the odd way he described himself then as if separate from himself now. She wondered why.

"When the child was ten, a traveling show came through. The ringmaster offered the mother 20 francs for the boy. She asked to go with him. When the ringmaster heard her sing, he acquiesced."

"Every night, the woman would sing, and the boy would sit, watching other children stare and scream, terrified of his face. After her shows, his mother would disappear as the boy continued to study late into the night. He learned all he could from the others, from the fortune-tellers, the pickpockets. It was an unsavory bunch, and that was when the boy saw his first corpse."

Christine gasped, nearly coughing at the smoke. Still, she didn't dare interrupt. Her body went cold even in the warmth of the dwindling fire.

"It was just a drunken fight, two workers in an argument, a knife under the ribs. So the boy studied that too, learning how to catch someone unawares, how to put them off balance. Of course," he said grimly, "you don't always have a knife to hand. So, the boy spoke to others, suddenly obsessed with death, with the control it had over everyone, even those who controlled others."

"The mother grew thin, frail. She wasn't used to the conditions of travel, constantly on the road. The boy learned to do magic, to try to earn their keep so she didn't always have to sing. But even with his additional income, she didn't seem to get better."

Christine shivered.

"One day, he saw her arms without her big shawl covering them. Her hands without her gloves. The bruises. The scrapes. I wasn't a child anymore, I knew enough."

He took a long breath. Christine's heart was pounding in her ears, but she found she wasn't afraid. Just deathly curious.

"She tried to stop me, but I was much stronger than her, and wouldn't listen. I knew who did this, I knew what had happened. Wasn't that enough for justice? I didn't have a knife, but that's the thing about circuses...there's always rope."

Christine's muscles had locked. She wasn't sure she would ever move again. Her eyes unfocused. She wondered, for a moment, what it would be like to be that boy. What it would take to make that decision.

"We left in the night when the ringmaster was discovered. We were able to use the money we had saved to bribe our way into a new circus, one a little more respectable, with a freak show where I could lay low. With a new owner. A horse show."

Christine closed her eyes. Oh .

"One night, I found myself no longer being allowed to leave the freak show tent. There was a padlock on my enclosure. No explanation was given. When I broke out of it under the cloak of darkness, my mother's tent was empty, her things gone. When I couldn’t find her, I ran to the stable, barely myself. I couldn't stop thinking she had been hurt again by another impulsive, angry man. I had to find her, save her, no matter what.”

He paused. "I believe you know the rest of the story." He cleared his throat. “I thought it was behind me. Until tonight…that man at this circus recognized me. He had worked with us; he knew what I had done.” 

The total horror of the story had paralyzed Christine. Slowly, methodically, she willed her legs to shift. She squeezed her palms, her fingers unclenching the fabric of her blouse. Lastly, she craned her neck upwards, to take in the storyteller anew.  

Erik felt her eyes on him but couldn't meet her gaze. He stared down hard at the fire, held the edges of the blanket down at his sides. “There’s a bounty on my head. I shouldn’t have come tonight, I put you in danger; I had thought it had blown over. I was stupid.”

Christine pushed herself up to a seated position, tucking her hair behind her ears. The silence between them burned his ears. He let his eyes unfocus on the flames, his eyes watering before he allowed himself to blink. The pain barely distracted him from the petrifying anxiety. He half-expected to hear her run off, to take her horses and leave him out in the woods. It would be what he deserved. Why had he told her so much? He found he couldn't stop, once he started. He hadn't exaggerated or embellished; he half-wished he had. No, a rejection of this story was a rejection of his core, who he was: a monster. He steeled himself for it.

"Oh, Erik," he heard her say. So she wasn't running, but pity was almost worse. He closed his eyes.

"What kind of life have you known?" he heard her whisper. He clenched his eyes tight. He couldn't bear to see her fear and sorrow.

The leaves crunched by his feet, too close, shocking him into opening his eyes. She was in front of him, her own eyes inches from his own.

"You are not alone, Erik," she said, her voice low and thick. He dared not close his eyes now. He breathed her in, all sugar and honeysuckle and hay, the flecks of flames behind her casting her dark lashes in shadow as they drew closer to his. Her mouth met his with a gentle brush, even sweeter than he had ever dreamt.  

For a moment, Erik couldn't see, or think, or feel anything other than the soft warmth of Christine's lips on his. Christine’s lips on his! Something about that clicked his brain into overdrive, and he needed it more than anything, and his hand was at the base of her skull, knotted in her hair, pulling her in closer. He could feel her palm against his ear, cradling his head towards her.

She was kneeling above his seated body, in control, and Erik let her urge him closer to her, let her touch his unmasked face, would let her do anything she wanted. He heard her give a little gasp for air and he pulled away, eyes on hers searching. What on earth was this? What could this mean? Her hand was still by his face, his gnarled skin, how could she stand it? How could she stand to be so close to him, to allow his bony fingers to touch her? He recoiled.

Pity, his mind answered. There you go again, Erik. You spun such a yarn you tricked her. She felt so poorly about your sad story, she was overcome with emotions. She can't possibly be feeling anything but pity. Hell, she might even be laughing at you. Put up to this, perhaps. Wanting to see what the skeleton felt like. A funny story to tell her little friends back at camp. He backed himself up against the tree and grabbed the canteen, scowling. Christine pulled back. 

"I'm going to refill the canteen. You should get some rest," he hissed. She watched him leave, mouth agape, her hand still frozen where she had been holding his cheek.

Chapter Text

She heard Erik return from his errand; pretended to sleep. She had to: her initial rage had since cooled to a deep shame, and she found she couldn't face him after embarrassing herself so thoroughly. Of course that kiss was unwanted, unwarranted. He had made it clear he was only helping her because it was his job, at best; at worst, it was an obligation, some consequence of the hold Firmin seemed to have over him. She had been naive to think anything more of the way he treated her tonight. It was all in a day’s work. 

Just like it was his duty to have caressed her cheek with the pad of his thumb when she kissed him. 

Just like it was only obligation that now led him to lay his saddle blanket over her sleeping form.

Just like it was professional courtesy for him to stay up, watching the fire fade as she slept.

It was all very confusing.

She woke at first light. The fire had died, and Erik was lightly dozing, still upright from the night before. Christine checked and saddled the horses before considering how to wake him. The thought of crouching over him, touching his shoulder…she cringed at her behavior the night before. No, that wouldn’t do at all. 

So Erik woke to the cold water of the stream splashed in his face, and he startled awake with a snarl. 

"We should be off, the company will be worried," Christine snapped. She peered at the horizon instead of meeting Erik's gaze. If he could be puzzling and aloof, so could she. In fact, she could do one better; she mounted her horse and kicked Raya into a trot before Erik was even in the saddle. Still, she waited for the sound of Amber’s hooves in the brush behind her. It wouldn’t do to leave him in the woods alone, no matter how much she wanted to kick Raya into a full gallop and leave her shame far behind with the boy with the sad eyes. 

With the sun rising to the east, the cool mist of the morning on her skin, a few hundred yards between her and Erik, she felt a little better. She did find herself at intervals checking that he had kept his seat and hadn't tumbled down into some ravine, but the clarity of the morning gave her a new perspective. Last night, she was all jumbled up, exhausted, and tipsy from the beer and the adrenaline, and had gotten caught up in the moment. It was impulsive, and she had been reading too much into her own feelings, let alone whatever signals she had imagined from him. She urged Raya into a trot, adding a bit more space between them for good measure. 

She had slowed towards camp and had begrudgingly allowed Erik to catch up. She could hear he was out of breath, his mouth open in a grimace, hands gripping the reins too tight as he bounced in the saddle after her. She ignored it as they came into the clearing, saw the old, familiar tents. She could see a figure pacing.

Her heart fell when she saw the familiar beard, the slope of her father’s shoulders. “Oh, here we go,” she groaned. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Erik turn, as though shocked that she had broken her hour of silence. Ugh. If Erik knew what was best for him, he would keep silent and let her handle the fuming man approaching them. 

She dismounted at the treeline of the forest, heard Erik fall with a huff from his saddle behind her. 

Erik watched Christine slowly approach her father, who rushed the last few feet to meet her and her horse. She had not looked at him, not spoken a word until she cursed under her breath at the sight of her father. Erik’s heart beat in pangs of anxiety, a sense that something was irrevocably damaged in his body from last night. He watched the girl shake off her father’s hands on her shoulders and tried not to think of the ache in his bones at the mere sight of her.   

"Where have you been? I've been so worried... Christine," her father admonished, checking her dirt-stained cheek, her ripped blouse. "What happened!?"

She sighed, nudging his embrace away. Erik stood, holding the reins, watching, not sure what to say or do. "I'm fine, Papa, we're fine. We just–" Christine paused. 

Oh God. Erik immediately saw the panic-stricken expression on Gustave Daae’s face and did the quick mental tally: his daughter was alone with the monster. At night. All night. It seemed Christine had realized the same implication and had frozen in place.

Erik wondered how this would go. He was not stupid; he knew a word from Christine’s father would be enough to encourage the unsavory circus roustabouts to exact their primitive sort of justice on his face, his body, bruise ribs bad enough that he would never sleep without pain. Suddenly, the two men on horseback from last night did not seem so terrifying. He was no stranger to violence, knew he could get in a few swipes before the mob would descend, but in this new place, with her…the idea of lying on the ground, knuckles bloody and face mashed into the dirt in front of Christine seemed an exquisite type of torture. Or, perhaps, Gustave would call the authorities outright. A jail cell and the accompanying sentence would be one thing; how soon until they uncovered the other allegations, the other crimes? Would the state expedite his fate when they realized what menace they had on their hands, what terrors he had wreaked on everyone he had ever known? Would Christine renounce him as well? Would he be forced to see her disappointed face before his execution? Could he, as some last request, ask that she never lay eyes on him again? He was going to be sick. 

Time had slowed as he panicked, as he saw the last months of his miserable life laid out so clearly in front of him. Last night was simply the final, damning weight in his soul’s tally of sins measured on some eternal scales, and he would soon be fated for a life in the underworld. The girl and her father were just one last stone in the road he had paved straight to hell.  

But then, Christine looked back at him with fear-stricken eyes, big and brown and begging him for something – urging him for help, and he heard himself speak with a voice more confident than he had ever genuinely felt. 

"It's my fault, sir.” 

Both Daaes looked at him in surprise, as if they had forgotten he was standing there. He hoped he appeared somewhat sympathetic, endearing – a look he never quite managed to pull off. "It got too late, and it was too dangerous on the road back. We had to stay at an inn in town."

Christine's jaw hung open. He shot her a glance, snapping her out of it. "Yes,” she said, as though surprised at the sound of her own voice. Of all of Christine’s talents, it seemed lying was not one of them. He willed her to continue. “Yes! That's exactly what happened." She shook off her father's arm.  

"You paid for a room at the inn?” Gustave glared at the figure in front of him.  Erik met his gaze, compensating for his partner’s shaking voice. 

“Two rooms,” he clarified, voice smooth and confident. “Of course. It was the least I could do." He could feel Christine’s eyes on him, but did not dare look at her.

Christine tried not to stare at Erik. Where, in his sordid travels, had he learned to lie so smoothly? She remembered the story he had told her the night before. He must have had to learn quickly to survive. Yet another mystery to unravel.

Erik took Christine's reins from her slack hand. She looked away. It was not like they had done anything untoward in the night…no, that was certainly not why her heart raced whenever he looked at her. A deep bloom of shame rose in her throat, and she dropped the reins the second his hands made contact with the leather. 

"I'll just put them away," he suggested to her, his voice quiet. He didn’t meet her gaze again. Christine watched him go.  

"Christine," Gustave said, his voice stern. She met his gaze, hoping she could be as confident as her partner.

"I'm fine, Papa. Seriously."

He tilted his head. "You're not a child anymore, Christine. You always remind me of that." She scoffed. Now he listened. "You can't act like one. You need to be careful."

"You always say that. I am careful."

Gustav pinched the bridge of his nose. "I don't mean just about...I mean your behavior..." he sighed. "Be careful with that one. I told you, he's dangerous."

Christine pulled herself up slightly, bolstered by the idea that, for once, she knew more on a subject than her father. "You have no idea," she said. "It's not what you think. Erik is–"

"I don't care," Gustave interrupted her. Christine stared, taken aback. Her father rarely spoke with such a tone. He gritted his teeth. "I don't mean that, but– you're too – people will –" he stammered. "Just –"

"Be careful? Sure, Papa," she softened. "I just – I don't think you need to worry about Erik, alright?" He relaxed a little, and Christine let him pull her into a hug. The bag of candy in her satchel crunched. She took it out and handed it to him, smiling softly.

"They had candy at the circus," she said. "I got you some. We ate most of it, but–"

Gustave laughed. "Molasses, on my old teeth," he shook his head. "You spoil me.”

"Now can I go rest?" Christine felt the weight of the past evening, her pulse pounding behind her eyes. Her cot sounded incredibly luxurious after the unforgiving earth. Gustave laughed, moving out of his daughter's way to their tent.

Christine woke from her restless slumber in the middle of the afternoon. She hated to lie around; already she could feel her mind assembling a list of tasks: chores to do, things she had been putting off that now needed to be done. Her heart raced not with the anxiety of this impending to-do list, but rather the dream she had woken from. It had come in pieces, the result of the uncharacteristic nap, and she did not care to revisit the way her imagination had filled in how the broad expanse of Erik’s palms had cupped her face, had found her waist so eagerly…

“UGH!” she yelled in the dim tent. She forced herself to sit up, to shove such ridiculous, embarrassing fantasies from her thoughts. On her back, the skin pulled taut by stitches screamed at the indignity of being held together long past their need to be. Something would have to be done about that, too. She had been putting off the obligations she had to her job, and what better time than now, when she could not face the scrutiny of broad daylight. 

She leaned down from her cot for her trunk and flicked open the fastenings to the leather case. It had been some time since she had destroyed the costume she loved so well; perhaps today she could bear to assess the torn satin of her performance dress and begin to mend it. When she had last forced herself to look at the costume lying like some mangled animal in her suitcase, blood had caked the laces; the boning of the corset stuck out at odd angles, splintered like bird bones; the star-spangles had been tossed in as though an afterthought, no longer attached to the pink and blue tulle. It would take hours, days perhaps to sew it into some wearable form, and that was only if she did not have to source new fabric, lacing, or boning. The sheer magnitude of the task had overwhelmed her; that, and the embodiment of her failure represented by the blood-soaked costume. She breathed, twisting her neck against the nagging itch of the stitches, knelt by the case and opened the lid.

“Papa?” She stumbled out of the tent to where her father sat, oiling the bow of his violin. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” he laughed. “The peddlers are here, you might want–”  It was then he looked up at her, his own brow furrowing at her balled-up fists. 

“Did you take my costume?” 

“What?” 

“My costume. It’s not there.” 

“My dear, I assure you – ” 

Christine’s heart sank. Of course. Letting the horses out was only part of the plan for her father’s nefarious scheme to stop her from performing. How could she perform with no horses? No costume? Her face grew hot. 

“I can’t believe you,” she stated. The words hit: her father winced.

“My dear, I’m sure it’s in your trunk as it has been these last few – ” 

“And why would I believe that?” she snapped. She suddenly could not take the false look of innocence on her father’s face. How stupid did he think her? Perhaps he had gone so far as to put Firmin up to sending her away for an evening so he could dispose of it. Her costume was long gone. She could no longer bear to stand there, needed to move, needed to run.

“Christine!” 

She gave a hard look to her father, whose instrument lay forgotten in his lap. “You’re unbelievable.” She stalked off, ignoring his calls. 

She could hear the commotion of the peddlers, all with their packs and carts, their mules and donkeys carrying wares from town to town. They scarcely bothered to stop at a circus as small as theirs, but Christine’s mind was so muddled she was barely able to enjoy the rare treat. She let her fingers skate across the canvas of the tents, passed a person selling kitchenware and medicines without even a cursory glance. No, she was stuck, stuck and being attacked from all angles, alone in the world with hardly a friend who did not betray her–

A familiar shock of black hair caught her eye and she barely had time to duck behind the tin pots and pans before Erik looked her way. Christine held her breath as she hid behind the little cart, praying he had not seen her, cursing herself for even bothering to leave her tent today. Of course she would have run into him, what was he even doing…she steeled herself to peek between the frying pans. He stood at the booksellers, holding some tome in his hand, exchanging money with the seller. Was he…chatting? Was that a slight smile on his face, obscured by the black leather mask? Was he…enjoying his day? The thought enraged her. Typical Erik, to take pleasure in her abject misery. Perhaps that was always the plan, always his scheme, to–

“Christine?” 

Christine turned to see the trapeze girls standing, their hands full of ribbons. Cecile tilted her head down at her. “What are you doing down there?” 

Christine wondered, absently, if she might have angered some god, and now she was fated to live out some hellish day over and over, some adolescent version of Prometheus’ torture. Surely, that would explain the mortification she was doomed to experience today.

“I was…” she stammered. “Looking for…my earring…it fell out.” 

“But, Christine,” little Jammes spoke up from behind Cecile, her own hands full of bows. “You don’t wear earrings.” 

Prometheus bound. Being strapped to the side of a mountain could not be worse than this, surely. 

“So true.” Christine forced a smile. “And thus, I must be off.”

“Come with us,” Cecile suggested. “We were just about to find lunch, and look at all our new ribbons.” 

Christine did not feel it necessary to recount how ribbons had a nasty habit of snarling in her curls and usually needed to be cut out, usually taking a chunk of her hair with it. She could not see from her crouched position if Erik was gone, but Cecile had already taken her hand in her own, pulling her up from where she hid. 

She stole a glance, and to her great relief he had gone, disappeared into the small crowd around the vendors. She breathed and let the girls prattle about their purchases. 

She still wasn't sure what had happened last night, what she had meant by the kiss, what he had meant in his eager, then immediately rude reception of it. Did he have some more unspoken secrets she wasn't privy to? Did he hate her now? She should have walked up to him and asked him. That was her usual way of dealing with conflict, why not? But she found herself too raw, too open, and she feared another scowl from Erik would be her demise. 

She walked with the girls. While she wore her usual trousers, today the girls wore their day dresses, all in pastel colors trimmed with lace. Cecile wore a shade of pink that Christine was sure would look revolting on her, like she was some overgrown radish, while on Cecile it set off the blue of her eyes and the sheen of her gold curls, all carefully placed in ringlets around a similarly pink bow. Did Erik like that kind of thing? Her own curls spiraled out at odd angles; brushes could not wrangle them, nor rag curlers, nor pomade. God, his hand had knotted in her hair, had he been surprised by how coarse her curls were? Would he have preferred tamer hair, something soft and gentle to the touch? Would a dress make her more lovely to him? Was she doing it all wrong? 

Cecile said something cruel; Christine could tell by the way the girls cackled. She forced her mind from her sinking thoughts to ask her to repeat it. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to attack your…” Cecile began, only to be met with more peals of laughter from the girls. 

Christine frowned. "What? Who?"

"Oh, you know," one of the other girls interjected. "He follows you around like a lost puppy."

"And his eyes...so intense, always staring at you. It's like he's watching your every move!" Jammes tried, in vain, not to laugh.

Christine scowled, realizing their joke. She was sure she turned the same color as Cecile’s dress. "Who, Erik?" She stammered, so mad she could barely speak. She wasn't used to being ambushed. She sought the nearest escape route. 

Cecile gave an apologetic look to Christine, swatting at the laughing girls. "Don't listen to them...we're just messing around. But you have to admit Christine, he is quite...enamored."

Christine's cheeks were hot. She looked down at her hands "It's not like that, Cecile," she pleaded with the girl. Her mind flashed to the night before, the rejection still stinging keenly. If only they knew... She turned, dusting imaginary dirt off her pants. "I have to go, horse stuff," she said, improvising. She didn't bother to look at their faces to see if they bought her flimsy excuse; she heard a burst of laughter as she left.  

The events of last night replayed in her mind in unrelenting waves of shame. In turn, she grew angry: at the girls, at Erik, at herself. Why had she been so impulsive? His story had tugged at her heartstrings, that was certain. She felt she suddenly had a clearer picture of who he was and why he was the way he was...but a kiss? She had never been so impulsive with a crush, not even back home in Perros. Her skin prickled in the heat of midday as she stalked past Marguerite's trailer, ignoring the open door: any other day, she would ask her help, her advice. Today, she knew if she spoke to her recently traitorous friend, she would say something she regretted. Her mind swam; yet again overwhelmed with all that she needed to do and all she could not control. 

The bookseller was packing up her wares, and Christine returned her wizened smile. 

"Not too many new stories today, my dear," Esme warned from behind her piles of books. Only she knew the organization, where everything was. Christine had long been pestering her for stories each time their paths met and despite everything she wondered if, perhaps, a book might ease her anxiety. She approached the cart.

“Anything exciting?” she asked, stowing her anxiety and her hands deep in her pockets.  

"Not much, love. And no more horse books  –  that fellow just took the last one."

Horse books? What did Erik want with that? Christine assumed he had bought something different, perhaps more math or science texts. What did he need with a book on horses? She turned back to the woman, brow knit in confusion. 

“A story then, please.”  She took out the meager monies she had saved and the woman eyed the coins. She handed her a small black book.

"You might like this one, my dear," she said as she handed her the volume. 

Christine took a step towards the freak show tent, telling herself she was curious about Erik's purchase, but it was already filling with people for the day, and she remembered the night before with a wince. No, she wasn't ready to see him again. Not yet.  

Her skin caught against the linen of her shirt and she hissed, cursing under her breath. She had a fleeting fantasy of tearing her skin off, however unreasonable. Could she start over with a new skin, a new life… God, the stitches were itchy. The idea of returning to her hot tent, her even hotter-tempered father for help made her ill. 

Her eyes fell on another vendor, hawking his own wares: various bottles, jars, poultices. “Apothecary,” his sign boasted. Marguerite called him a snake oil salesman. Christine knew to steer clear, but she also knew that not all the men at his stall sought medicine. There was one way to solve both her issue with Erik and her nagging stitches. 

“Whiskey, please,” she said, a coin on the table.

The sun had reached its zenith and the heat came with it, the cicadas buzzing their incessant rhythm in the trees. Erik had tried to stay inside as long as possible, secure in the knowledge that, despite being enclosed in his prison of a cage in the freak show, he would be safe from facing her. Christine did not enter the tent; fine – he was happy to never leave. 

So when Firmin entered the suffocating swelter of the canvas tent and admitted that the heat had scared away potential visitors, and given them the afternoon free of their enclosures, Erik wondered if he had angered some old god in a past life. Surely, that was the only explanation for the events of his life. 

He kept his eyes low, circumstance forcing him to leave the tent and peruse the vendors; he ignored the comments from the crueler salesmen, found the bookseller instinctually. He answered her questions as quickly as he could manage, exposed in the open, until finally he could clutch the book he had bought to his chest and retreat to the woods, praying she was not around. He would not be able to bear it. 

He spent the day like this, under the trees, the words on the page blurring and refocusing as intrusive thoughts replayed the night before. How had he let things get so out of control, so unlike the usual steel grip he kept on his emotions – was he to be so easily undone by a halo of curls and an infuriatingly inscrutable smile? He clenched his fist, opening and closing it, pushing his fingernails into the fleshy part of his palm, anything to distract himself from the odd way she had smiled at him in the firelight. Had he always felt this way, despite his insistence to the contrary? It had not been so long ago that he had wished her ill, cursed her very existence. Now, even the fleeting thought of her permanent silence made his chest squeeze, his breath catch in his throat. He ran a hand over his unmasked face, trying in vain to focus on something, anything else other than the way his heart lurched its unsteady rhythm when he thought about the events of the last day. Too soon, the sun hit the tree line and he had lost track of how many times he had read the page. It was time to go; time to help Christine feed and put the horses away before sunset. 

Of course he considered not going, considered leaving her like he had left last night, but he had to admit he felt an unusual sense of obligation towards those creatures, if not towards the woman who loved them. He waited for a sign of life outside the stable and saw none; it was embarrassing how he dashed inside, grabbed the water buckets, and fled before he could see the tell-tale head of tousled hair cresting over the hill to take her horses inside for the night. 

Her hair. He had lost count of how many times he had stared at it, had considered that it wasn’t really “brown” but a deep umber, flecked with warm streaks of tawny amber, the rich warm tones of the leather saddle which she always conditioned so carefully shining in the tight coils of her hair. He hadn’t realized how thick it was, how it welcomed his hand twisting into it like it was just waiting for him to take that final step, to breach the well-established boundary between her body and his. 

He plunged his exposed wrists into the cool current of the creek with the water buckets, tried to wash away how she had looked at him through golden eyelashes. Already, he couldn’t trust his memory; it was failing him, was already trying to trick him into more mistakes, trying to convince him she felt for him the way he did for her. She pitied him, nothing more. They would never be anything more than what they were. Do not think about her any longer. He hauled the buckets up, welcoming the burn in his arms as he returned to the stable.

He nearly dropped the buckets when he entered the tent to see a rather disheveled version of the Christine of his daydreams sitting on the little milking stool, shirt unbuttoned at the collar and pulled off of one shoulder. An open whiskey bottle sat on the trunk next to her as she took a pen knife to the black stitch in her shoulder.

"What are you doing?" he yelled, startling her and making her drop the knife. 

"S'nothing," she slurred. His eyes darted to the half-full bottle next to her. He could smell her from here.

"Doesn't look like nothing," he reprimanded, stooping to pick up the penknife. From such a close proximity, he could see her wounds healed, the stitches no longer necessary. They had to come out before they caused more problems.

"The doctor couldn't come back, but these have to come out," she explained, eyes focusing and unfocusing on his. "Whiskey helps, for the pain.”

"To a certain degree, I suppose you're right," he said, moving the bottle out of reach. "But it will be little help if you cut your wounds open again."

"I can do it," she said, holding out her hand expectantly. "Gimme th’ knife." Erik straightened up, keeping the blade out of her reach.

"I'm not sure you're in the right condition," he said, staring at her bare skin, glistening with sweat, her open face, the thought of the damage she could do with the blade. He sighed, coming to the unavoidable conclusion. "I suppose I can – " 

"Can you?" Christine exclaimed. "Do you know your way around a knife? I can do it," she repeated.

Erik sighed. It was time for their evening chores, and there was much work to be done, and his manager – as much as it pained him to call her that – was dead drunk. Was it possible she did not have it in her to remember the previous night? Was she that far gone? He knelt in front of her, her breath a noxious fume. If he had a nose, he would wrinkle it. 

"Hold still – " he ordered, though his patient was not cooperating.

"I can do it, Erik, I don't mind blood, I've stitched up horses and undone stitches-"

"So have I," he admitted, gritting his teeth.

"No, no, no – "

"Christine," he warned.

“I mean it, givemetheknife.” 

“No.” 

“I can handle –”

“I don’t think you can.” 

“You don’t know how to –”

She only ceased when he pulled his black shirt sleeve up to the elbow.

"Oh," she said, quieting. Her eyes seemingly had no trouble focusing on the rail-road tracks of scars on his arms, some deep, some white with scar tissue, some fresh. He crouched next to where she sat and waited for her to scream. Run. When she did not, he spoke. 

"I've been stitching myself up for quite a while," he admitted, his stomach churning. He hated the look of sadness on her face, an expression that would so quickly turn to pity. He remembered the night before with white-hot shame piercing his chest. He didn't want it, not the pity, not the shame. "If you don't do it right, that's how you get these," he said, gesturing to the angriest scars.  

"How – " she whispered, a hand out over the veins of his forearm, hovering above, but not touching. Of course, who would want to touch someone so horrible, so terrifying. So disgusting. How could he explain that the physical scars were nothing compared to the ones she couldn't see, even worse than the scars inflicted by himself. He pulled the sleeve down hard and moved behind her, where she couldn’t see his shame. 

"Hold still," he warned, planting a firm hand on the nape of her bare neck. He brushed the stray hairs from the stitches, the fuzz on her skin standing on end at the gesture, and she stilled. "Now, what were you saying about – " he began a question, her wide brown eyes focused on his, listening. She seemed to be trying to hear the end of the question, so much so that she didn't see his right hand open the knife, bring it to her shoulder, and slice through the stitch.

"Ah!" she let out. "You didn't warn me!" she protested, swatting his shirt. He let an eyebrow raise.

"And did it hurt that much?" he said, knowing the answer. Sheepishly, she shook her head.

"But now I'll know the trick that you – " she argued, not noticing him move again. "Owww! Erik!"

"Do you want these things out or not?" he countered, rolling his eyes before slicing through another without waiting for an answer.

They worked through the stitches on her shoulders quickly, Christine employing the choicest curses from her time on the road. Erik entertained himself by committing the unfamiliar Swedish swear words to memory, teaching her some of his own favorites from his past travels. He sent a silent apology to Gustave Daae as his daughter let out a new oath in Urdu.

The remaining stitches lived under the bottom half of her shirt, and Erik had to pause to address this.

"If you could, uhm, your shirt – untuck – pull it up from the bottom – " he stammered, still behind her, hoping she couldn't see his blush. She, rather immodestly, yanked the shirt, bunching it up under her chest. Erik held his breath for a moment, the enormous purple bruises at her ribs still not fully healed.

"What?" she asked. "Please, Erik, can we get this over with?"

The top of her shirt spotted with blood from the stitches already removed. He could count the vertebrae in her back, and he was reminded of the medical books he had pored over, suturing his own wounds. He placed a hand on Christine's bare back, pushing her forward. She was warm, too warm, the pads of his fingers tracing the curve of her shoulder blade. He forgot what he was doing for a moment.

"Do you know any good stories, Christine?" he asked.

She laughed. "Mr. math and science wants a story?" she taunted. "You've come to the right place. While you're deep in architecture, I devour stories."

"Oh?" Erik said, encouraging her to continue talking as he stilled his hand over the stitches, forced himself to focus.

" Ouch! " she cursed. "Oh, you'll like this one," she trailed off.

"Will I?" he asked, unsure why she stopped speaking.

"Yes, but it's a song."

"Oh? Sing it for me," he said. He felt like he was Christine, talking to the horses in a low voice. He hesitated, waiting for her to begin her song, something to distract her.

"Fine – " she sighed.

Erik stilled, his hands at the thin skin stretched over vertebrae, as she sang. 

It was simple, low, a repeating melody, the words the real story. It was the tale of a woman condemned, lamenting on the gallows for her lost love, who had died the same cruel way years before. How she wished he was there, to comfort her. He comes to her at last, but it is because she has died, and they are now reunited in heaven.

He broke the silence and Christine jumped, as though she had forgotten he was there. His hands sprung from her back as though the hot flesh burned him; had he been touching her that long? 

"Thank you. That was a lovely story. You sing beautifully."

Christine blushed. "My father and I used to sing, before-” She looked around. “I guess before all of this.” 

Ah. Before she devoted herself to acrobatic horse work. Voltige. 

Christine sniffled. Erik was not sure the blame fell only on the whiskey. "That story always makes me sad," she said.

“Then why do you sing it?” Erik asked, already knowing the answer. The same way he always came back around, a dog waiting for the soft hand, always anticipating the hard slap. Expecting a different result every time.

Christine looked about, bleary eyed. “I don’t know,” she said. “Perhaps I like the ending.” 

“Perhaps indeed,” Erik heard himself say, reaching yet again for her, caressing the heat of her back, watching her twist towards him, face upturned, open–

“OUCH!" 

He cut a stitch, a bit unkindly, and the spell was broken in the empty tent.

“Not a word,” she said, grimacing over their morning chores. Erik looked down at the rope he was winding. 

“I didn’t say anything,” he said, a whisper of a smile quirking up at the edge of his mask. “There’s more coffee inside.” He gestured at the tent. 

“Oh.” 

“Yep.” 

“Thank you.” She looked at her boots, waited a moment longer outside for a bolt of lightning to mercifully take her out of her misery. It was then she heard a rustling approaching the pair of them and she scowled further. Yes, a bolt of lightning indeed. 

She avoided Erik's eye as Firmin walked up to them. He appeared to be on a mission, moving faster than Christine had ever seen him; he wasn’t even looking down like he usually did, perpetually afraid of ruining his shoes on horse manure. 

"I’ve finally caught you!" he said, out of breath. “Finally!” He grinned, eyeing Christine as if she would strike out at any moment. Christine supposed her facial expression was unwelcoming; she didn't move to change it.

He attempted another entry point into the conversation. “Thought we had lost you two for a second. Ha!” 

They stared at him. 

He cleared his throat. "I trust your venture to the other show went well," he said.

Oh yes. That. The women flipping on ponies couldn’t have seemed farther in the past; the actual reason they had attended the circus was a mere blip in the events of the evening. She realized Firmin was looking for her to speak. Erik seemed to not be in the business of helping her at this moment; he stared off into the middle distance, away from Firmin’s incessant smile and ridiculous mustache awaiting her answer. She imagined what Firmin would do if Erik looked at him like he had that wolf. Yes, that would be something. She bit her lip to stop herself from smiling at the notion. 

“Yes.” Christine cleared her throat. “Uh, a lovely show.” 

“It was helpful?” Firmin asked. 

“Mhm.” 

“Anything specifically…useful?” 

Christine nodded. “Loads.” What was it that they had seen…her mind was only recalling the way he had stood behind her, the feel of his breath on her neck…yes, she supposed there were leaps and jumps in the arena too. She shook her head to clear her mind. “I’m, uh, we’re…excited to get started on some new tricks.” 

Firmin nodded absently. "Christine I – I know you are still recovering from your injury – "

She felt her cheeks grow hot. She had awoken this morning to a back crusted over with scabbing. Much as she hated to admit it, Erik had known what he was doing when he took the stitches out the way he did. 

"I'm fine. Great, actually. Never been better," she exaggerated. She could see Erik look at her from the corner of her eye and didn't look back.

Firmin's eyebrows lifted. "Oh! Because I was speaking to your father, and – "

"He doesn't know what he's talking about, I'm fully recovered."

"Oh?"

"Yep," Christine asserted. She stood a little straighter.

"Well, that's wonderful to hear. Would you be able to return to the show by the end of the week?"

She stared back. Oh. She hadn't considered that far ahead. She hadn't been lying, she was better. But their routine...was nonexistent. She hadn't even run her old routine in weeks. But she was in too deep now. Why oh why was Erik still here, and why was he staring at her like that?

"Yes," she said in a small voice. She glanced towards Erik, who was looking at her like she had just lost her mind. Had she? After the last two days, she wasn't sure she hadn't.

"Well, that's...wonderful!" Firmin responded, as though unsure how to interpret the odd reaction from both young people. "I'll add you to the bill."

He walked back through the wet morning grass, picking his feet up to try to avoid the worst of the damp. Christine and Erik watched him walk away in silence.

"What was – " Erik began.

"Shut up. I know." She cringed into the fence. "I'm so stupid."

"You're not stupid," he chastised. "You think we're ready?"

"Of course not!" she exclaimed. The crisis at hand overshadowed any prior shyness she had felt around Erik. She turned to him now for answers. "What do we do?"

He sighed. "We get to work."

Chapter Text

Christine returned to her tent after practice. She rubbed the side of her hip that had hit the saddle wrong, tried not to limp, though her body ached. Perhaps trick-riding was not as easy to resume as she had thought. 

"Ah, shoot."

Her trunk was still open, her clothes strewn about the way she left them. Missing still, of course, was the glittering dress she performed in. Her father had given no indication where it was, and now, he was nowhere to be found, and neither was her dress.

Firmin had given them a week. In no universe would she be able to recreate the dress in that time, let alone a month...in a week she could maybe hem a skirt, though incredibly haphazardly. In no timeline could she possibly find a seamstress to make the dress...it had cost her father a month's wages last time, and that was with the previous circus manager's generous help. Now she was in the middle of nowhere, without a costume and without a routine.

She looked down at her trousers, crusted with dirt. She couldn't perform in anything she owned. Her show was a mess, and she had nothing left. 

Tired and exhausted, covered in sweat from an unsuccessful practice, she began to cry.

And like most times when she cried, she found herself out of the tent and on her way to the stable, her only solace shoving her tear-covered face into her loyal friend's mane.

She walked the long way to the stable to avoid the crowds, taking the path that wrapped around the big tents: the arena she would soon not be performing in, the animal exhibits, the freak show. Again she wondered if she might pass through, see how Erik was faring after such a terrible practice–

No.

That was a route she would not allow her thoughts to go. He had been so encouraging despite her failings. Ultimately, the mistakes made today were hers. They had only just begun to interact without awkwardness – seeing her cry could only cause them to regress. 

To her chagrin, the back flaps of the freak show were open to the wood she now passed through, in some attempt to quell the terrible heat of midsummer. She could hear the calls of crowds pointing, gasping in awe and pity at the folks inside. Shadows of bars, of figures in cages, could barely be made out in the haze of the dim tent. She might almost see Erik –

No, Christine.

As if he had heard her thoughts, she watched in horror as a thin figure turned around from his pedestal in the back center of the tent.

Shit.

She dove behind the flap of the tent beneath some crates and boxes, eyes squeezed tight as if that could help her hide more convincingly. Her heart beat in her ears and she wondered if she might be able to disappear totally from existence in this moment, anything to evade such mortification.

Had he seen her? She strained to hear through the canvas of the tent, but she could only hear the din of the crowd.

She was just passing by, anyway, it wasn't like she was thinking of him...except she was, she very much was, and that only made her blush harder. She blinked hard, trying to catch her breath against the coarse tent fabric, when something caught her eye.

Between the bottom of the tent and the ground, she could see inside the tent, in the space behind the exhibit. Cords, wires, more boxes blocked most of what she could see. There, among the boxes, was a small soft...thing, a bag of some sort, a rucksack. She shimmied closer, nearer to the object that had caught her eye. She pulled at the open bag, its contents spilling from the way it must have fallen from its storage place among the clutter. Inside a worn hardback book, a glint of silver; her mind recognized the precise shade before she could articulate why she was so drawn to it, and so she pulled the book and its odd, glimmering bookmark from the bag without thinking.

There, inside the pages of the book, was a spangle from her performance gown, the silver star twinkling at the end of the torn trim that once attached it to the skirt.

She stared at it, sitting in the pages. She closed her eyes and the book, as if putting off the inevitable. Her eyes jumped to the cover.

"The Practical Horsekeeper" stared back at her, glimmering gold on the blue cover. The words of the bookseller sounded in her mind.

"No more horse books, my dear: just sold the last– " and her suspicions collided with reality.

She plucked the star from the pages and stalked into the dim, hazy tent.

The freak show ebbed and flowed with visitors, surrounding one cage and then another, as though the visitors had no mind of their own and had to wait for the herd to decide where to crowd next. The pedestal on which Erik sat was mercifully sparsely attended; no matter, Christine did not mind an audience.

"What is this?" She let her frustration and anxiety funnel into those three words with extreme force. Erik whipped around at the sound, as did some of the passersby. They quickly scattered when she glared at them.

She held the piece of costume aloft in her hand. Erik was already on his feet. His unmasked face shone a shade whiter, his eyes locked on the spangle. 

"Christine, I can explain–"

She didn't let him. "Why do you have this? What did you do, Erik?"

"What did I do? What did you – you went in my things?" he hissed.

She didn't let the accusation hit. "I–I found this outside. How?" 

"I told you, I –"

"Do you have my costume?"

"I didn't –"

"Do you have my costume, Erik?"

He ran a hand over his face. "Yes. Yes, I do, but –"

The words stung and she blinked. She had steeled herself for this betrayal, after so many others, and yet she was not ready. Her words came out garbled from fighting back the traitorous tears threatening the back of her throat. "Why?" she whispered. She could only imagine the rest of the splintered thing in even worse shape than the little silver star now cutting into the soft flesh of her palm. "Why did you take it?"

Her mind flooded with answers, each more terrible than the last. He set her up. He was mocking her, he wanted to sell the dress, wanted to trick her. This was all a ruse to end her career. He wanted to see her fail. He hated her.

Erik looked as though he had been punched, holding onto the bars, his knees landing on the pedestal. "Please, Christine."

It was all too much.

She gave a sharp, hollow laugh. "Forget it."

"No, I –"

"No," Christine interrupted. "I trusted you. Guess I made that mistake. Again."

She left the spangle in the dirt and turned out of the tent before he could see her tears.

She made good on her plan to press her face to her horse's mane and cry, though for a different reason than she had originally planned.

How could he?

She sniffed and laughed into Raya's mane. If she had told her past self she would be standing in her stable, crying over the boy with the yellow eyes betraying her, that Christine would think her ridiculous. Yet she could not lie to herself that she had counted her friendship with Erik more dear than she could have ever imagined when he threatened her those weeks ago. 

Bleary-eyed, she slowly cut the twine that kept the bales of hay together, put a flake under each boarded horse, avoided the tiny pieces of hay stuck on her sleeve as she wiped her eyes. It was funny, really, how easily she could overcome this too, could move forward, anyway, she sniffled back the last of her tears and who needed him and his stupid strong arms and the way he looked right through her to her soul and –

The sound of a horse standing at alert notified her that there was another presence in the barn and she turned.

Erik stood, eyes wide, the black mask only emphasizing the slight shadowy figure he cut in the stable. In his hands, a familiar shock of taffeta. Her dress.

"Erik."

He held it delicately at the puffed shoulders, the remainder of the bodice glimmering, and glittering, and...altogether fixed. No longer could she see the horrible blood stains and broken boning and ripped tulle.

"I'm sorry –"

"You fixed it!" she breathed, racing towards the costume, eyes on the collection of new silver stars across the torso, the seamless way the skirt was reattached to the bodice. Erik held it high over the dust, the skirts clean and perfect and glimmering, every spangle accounted for. It was perfect, it was even more beautiful than before, it was –  

Without thinking, she threw her arms around his torso and squeezed hard.

"Oh, thank you Erik," she whispered, her cheek against his chest.

"I–" from above her, Erik made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

"Oh!" Oh no, oh no, she had upset him. Again!

She released him and immediately he took a hearty step back, the dress still in his arms, which he had held aloft as though to avoid any potential contact with her as they untangled.

"Sorry!" Christine reached for him and thought better of it, for he stepped back yet again. "I didn't mean –"

"Yes, well," Erik choked, looking down at the bodice. "I thought...well, it was presumptuous of me, I suppose..." He was pointing at something on the dress.

Christine figured it was best to direct her attention, too, to the dress before taking a tentative step closer, to see better. This seemed to be received without protest.

"I wanted...well, if we had new fabric...I suppose it would be better, but given what we had..." He pointed to the little glimmering embroidered stars.

She turned to see what he was staring at and gave a soft gasp.

"It's the night sky!" she realized. Yes, there on her bodice were the little stars that made the square – the “irregular polygon,” she remembered – of the Little Dipper, the stars of Orion's Belt, the smattering of dots of Cassiopeia. It must have taken hours, painstakingly stitching each into the satin of the gown.

"There were so many holes," Erik murmured behind her, breath rustling the loose hair on her shoulder. "I had to patch them with something. So I chose the summer sky. I hope that's alright." 

"It's better than alright," she said, taking the dress from him, examining further. "It's as if nothing happened at all, how did you –?"

"You pick things up on the road," he gave a sad little smile. "It's hard to find a tailor when you aren't in one place for long. If you need your socks darned, I'm your man."

Christine couldn't understand the sadness that crept into his voice, but she did not pry, took the dress and held it up to herself. It could not be real, he could not be so ingenious. She looked up at him with new eyes.

At her expression, Erik's mouth quirked downward, his hands shoved into his pockets. "Enjoy your dress; I'll go...finish the outside chores." He disappeared before she could ask what she had done wrong. 

Erik stood in the center of the ring, the long make-shift riding crop in his hand. On the other end of the rope, Amber idly ate grass. Christine watched from the rock where she sat.

"No, no, no," she corrected, pulling Amber's head up from the grass and reaching for the riding crop. Immediately, Amber perked up at the motion at her flank and began to walk.

"She's lazy, you can't give her an inch," she corrected. "See what I'm doing?"

Erik stared. "But I thought you said –"

"That was for Cesar," she grimaced. "He's an ass. You have to be delicate with him, or he'll mule and refuse to move. Amber can handle a little tap with the crop. Here – try again,"

The sun beat down on them. Christine shielded her eyes as she took a step back. Erik raised his arm as if to hack down on the horse with the whip. Christine's sharp intake of breath stopped him.

"No, like–" she stammered for a moment before coming to his side. It looked like her plan to simply never be close to Erik again was not exactly a brilliant scheme. She hesitated, her hand hovering above his wrist. "May I?"

He nodded, and she put a hand on his wrist, eyes on the horse. Anything but eyes on the strong pulse at her fingertips. She flicked his wrist slightly, the ribbon at the end of the riding crop barely touching Amber's back legs. The horse began to trot again. Christine kept her hand on Erik's for a beat longer than necessary.

"See?" Her voice was rough; she dropped his wrist and smoothed out an invisible wrinkled in her trousers. She cleared her throat. "Try it now," she said, nodding, back to business. He squinted in the late morning sun and the horse continued forward.

"Good, now we can –" she began, and Erik stole a look at the sky. Noon. She groaned. "You have to go."

"I can be back earlier tomorrow," he suggested. She took the crop from him, hoping to run Amber a little longer, to stretch her legs. Her fingers brushed his as they exchanged the rope that held the horse. She furrowed her brow and looked up at him, suddenly suspicious.

"Why are you helping me, still?" she said, the futility of it all suddenly as suffocating as the midday heat. 

He shrugged. "You said it yourself, you want to be good."

"And you think I can do that?"

He grinned, a malicious twinkle in his eye as he began to walk away. "Maybe...but only with my help!" He dodged her attempt to prod him with the crop as he dashed out of the circle and towards the forming crowds of the circus.

Christine sighed. It was still awkward between them - but, surprisingly, that seemed to be her issue, not Erik’s. There was no indication he harbored hard feelings, and he even listened to her today. She rubbed a hand over her sweating face before giving a groan. What was the matter with her?

The next day, true to his word, Erik was earlier to practice. Even with the earlier start, Christine was only able to be in the saddle while Erik controlled the horse for a few precious minutes before the sun hit its zenith; Christine hit her forehead in anguish against Raya's mane.

"How are we supposed to get anything done?!" she yelled against the horse, who shuffled underneath her. Erik handed her the coiled rope and crop, pushing his hair out of his face. He seemed frustrated as well.

"I know, I'm sorry," he agreed. "I can be here earlier tomorrow?" 

Christine could only nod as he strode off, the summer sun beating down on them. 

Christine was sitting in the shade of an old oak tree, leafing through the worn copy of "Othello" that the bookseller had given her, when she had an idea.  

Before she fully thought it through, she was in Mr. Firmin's office, her hat in her hands.

"Christine!" He smiled, seemingly happy to greet her in the relative comfort of his caravan. It was a deceptively packed space for such a small room: he was working at an old dark-oak desk that boasted an elegant lamp. Stacks of papers surrounded him, and on both sides of the desk piles of boxes and crates full of more papers blocked the sunlight streaming in through the windows. Christine wondered how the portly man got behind his desk everyday...the image almost made her smile. Only the seriousness of her request kept her from grinning.

"Good afternoon, sir," she said, her mouth stumbling over the professional wording. What was she doing? She stared at the room, taking in the knickknacks, her eyes avoiding the intimidating stare of the circus owner.

"What can I do for you?" he asked, his voice a little too booming for the close-quarters.

Christine fidgeted with her hat. 

"How is the practice going? All ready for the show?"

Christine looked up. Yes, that was what she was going to talk about. Her mind began to defrost. "About that –"

Firmin's face fell for a moment. "Erik is alright, isn't he?"

She let out a laugh, relieved he brought him up first. "Yes, yes, he's wonderful," she said. She thought back to her father's advice. What should you do with a boss? Flatter them? "I'm so glad you brought him to me, you were right: it is easier to work with another person in the barn."

"Wonderful, I'm glad to hear it," he said, and returned to his papers. Christine hesitated.

"Yes?"

"It's just..." she began. "I know you made it clear Erik stays in the, uh, tent, and has to perform in the freak show..."  

"Quite right," he agreed. 

"It's just..." she wracked her brain. What to do, if the flattery didn't work? Oh yes.

She burst into tears.

Firmin stood up in surprise. "Oh, dear dear," his voice shaking, as if he was quite unused to this behavior. He squeezed through the boxes and hovered next to her, clearly unsure if he should comfort her, or how. She continued to sob. He apparently settled for a pat on the head for comfort.

"There there," he said. "What's the matter?"

"It's just –" she continued to sob. "Oh, Mr. Firmin, we aren't ready to perform!"

"Oh!" he said, unsure. "What – what do you need?"

Christine sniffled to a more manageable trickle of tears. She almost stopped crying entirely, but felt that would throw off the authenticity of the performance. She sniffed loudly. "Oh, Mr. Firmin, we need to practice much more. I hate to ask you this, but do you think –"

"Anything, my dear," he said, as if to say, "anything to get you out of my office."

Christine wiped at her dry eyes. "Would it trouble you to let Erik work with me, for now? We need to practice our new routine, with all the flips and tricks, if we’re going to start performing this week." 

Firmin paused. "These flips and tricks..."

Christine nodded, her voice still bleary as if she was still upset. "We saw all those tricks from the other circus, and we need to practice making them more spectacular than what we saw," she whined. "I can't manage it when he has to leave at noon every day to be in the freak show," she said, sniffling for good measure. 

Firmin let out a heavy sigh and reached into his pocket. He removed a slender silver skeleton key from his pocket.

"Let's go, my dear. Now please, stop crying!"

Christine had to hide her triumphant grin by the time they made it to the freak show tent. The crowds were gathered, and Firmin took his sweet time, not wanting to jostle the customers in their quest to ogle the people in cages. From her pedestal, posing and scowling at the crowd for effect, Marguerite waved to Christine. Christine returned the wave with a small smile. She did miss tea time with her friend, though she hadn't quite recovered from the fact that said friend had put her horses in such danger without warning her. After her “cry” in Firmin's office, she was tired and the anger in her heart was having trouble finding a place to nest. She followed Firmin’s green plaid suit deeper in the crowd.  

She was reminded of the conversation with the trapeze girls; the mean-spirited laughter of the crowd was the same, the judgmental stares of children and adults alike. If Marguerite was bothered by the stares, she didn't show it; if Erik noticed them, he didn't flinch. Christine shivered during the brief moment she could see him and he couldn't see her: his eyes were glazed over and unseeing as he sat in the center of the cage. She thought to the other circus, the freaks sitting around the campfire, their jokes and laughter ringing out between them. Did they have the same look in their eyes for the majority of the day?

Then, Erik saw her and his eyes flashed with recognition – and he saw Firmin next to her.

"What?" he mouthed, and she suppressed a smile. 

"Wait until the crowd clears a bit," Firmin said, and shoved the key in Christine's hand. Before she could question, he was already wading through the visitors, heading back to work.

"What's going on?" Erik hissed, eyeing the onlookers. 

Christine’s mind raced - the daylight was dwindling and they needed to practice. "I'm breaking you out," she said, and she could see out of the corner of her eye Erik stare at her.

"What?"

"You heard me," she said, flashing a performer's smile at the crowds as she leaned against the bars of the cage. Her lips barely moved as she explained, briefly, her exchange with Firmin. "I told him we needed to practice, and here we are!"

"And that worked?" His voice was incredulous.

Her smile faltered. "I may have...cried a little. But hey, whatever works, right? Now how do we get these people out of here?"

"Do you have any matches?" 

"We are not starting a fire, pyromaniac," she hissed. "I was thinking something more...legal?"

Erik scowled. "Fine. Make something up."

Christine grabbed at the bars of the cage, hiking herself up onto the bars. She could feel yellow eyes watching her.

"Ladies and gentlemen," she announced, and the crowd quieted somewhat. "For the next ten minutes only, I'm pleased to announce free ice cream will be given – only to the first hundred patrons!"

The children squealed with delight. A moment of pause, then the exodus. Christine stood above the crowd, watching with satisfaction as the herd stampeded out of the freak show tent and towards the promise of free food. In the heat of July, the offer tempted even the adults.

Once the tent had been mostly cleared of customers, Christine jumped down from the bars and took the skeleton key from her pocket, unlocking the door.

"That was genius," Erik said, and she accepted the rare compliment. His brow furrowed. "But we don't sell ice cream."  

She flashed a smile and opened the gate. "Then we'll have to hurry. Come on!"

They were breathless by the time they made it back to the stables. Christine was giggling in a giddy way that made her unsure of why, exactly, she was laughing so hard at such a moment, but when she looked at Erik his expression told her he was amused by the spectacle himself.

"So that was real?" He allowed himself a smile. "Firmin really is letting us have this time to practice?"

"For now," Christine nodded. "There's no telling if he will change his mind, but if he wants us to perform at the end of the week we need to get started."

At the prospect of days uninterrupted with Erik, Christine's stomach twisted with anxious excitement. In one way, the idea of actually being able to improve their routine, a routine that was basically nonexistent, was exciting to her as a creative. On the other hand, she dreaded the long, tense silence that could linger between them.

To her surprise, they settled into an easy routine with very little, if any, time to even feel the odd tension that existed ever since the ill-fated kiss. Christine found herself too busy with planning her tricks to dwell on his hateful expression that night at the bonfire, and Erik was a dutiful student, accepting her instruction and asking questions, preventing the conversation from straying too far from the task at hand.

He led the horse around the ring. Christine was narrating what she was doing, trying to keep her horse's handler steady.

"Ok, keep her at a trot," she said, her voice shaking as she began to take her feet out of the stirrups. Raya was trotting in a consistent counterclockwise circle around Erik, who monitored the horse carefully. "Keep the lead correct...there you go. Ok, I'm going to try to...hold on. Yep...let me see if I can –" she put her hands on the leather of the saddle, tilting forward into a handstand. She could feel the three-beat gait of the horse like a rhythm as she held the handstand.

"Alright?" Erik called to her.

"Yep, keep her –" She spoke too soon. She felt the horse give an odd half step, the lead foot switching and altering the horse's gait. She fell into the saddle with an oof, barely keeping her seat.  

"Ah!" She let out a frustrated noise. She saw Erik's eyes flash with indignation, and she took a breath. "Ok, that's ok. You have to keep on her to stay at this pace, or she's going to get off-lead."

Erik nodded. "That's counter-cantering, right?"

Christine couldn't help but grin as she pulled Raya to a halt. "Someone's been studying."

Erik shrugged. "I learn best from books."

Christine nodded. She remembered the words of the bookseller, and the well-worn book in Erik’s bag among his scant belongings. He must have been studying all night after the freak show had ended. For some reason, the notion of Erik, burning his lamp oil for her, made her heart flutter. She repressed it by pulling at the shortened reins to stop Raya's grazing.  

"Again?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the horse.

They spent the week perfecting the tricks Christine was going to do, what they would look like. Christine wasn't yet comfortable having Erik lead two horses at once, so the more fantastic tricks were off the table for now. She was considering this as they brought the horses in for the night.

"What?" Erik asked, noting her expression.

"Nothing," Christine said, pulling Raya's bridle off. "I just – are we doing enough? For the show?"

Erik thought about it. "I think we're doing what we can, considering. I'm not sure I'm comfortable doing much more on my end, at least for now."

Christine nodded. "It's not your fault. I just wish –" She thought back to the other circus. "They were doing so much, you know? I feel like I'm just doing the same old tricks."

Erik nodded. Christine, lost in thought, left him for the night in the stable, where he had been sleeping since his recent liberation.

She put her hands in her pockets on the way back to her tent for the night, her hand hitting something hard and metal. The skeleton key.

"Oh," she said to herself. She hadn't meant to keep it this long – surely Firmin would want it returned, even if the enclosure wasn't being used for the time being. She wove through the sleeping tents, the quiet big top long empty, to Firmin's caravan. She stepped up the two stairs up to the door and knocked. When there was no answer she slowly pushed the door open.

Firmin was sleeping in his chair, head tilted back, snoring a low, consistent snore. Christine hesitated - should she come back in the morning? No, they still had so much to do; she could just leave the key on the desk, he would see it when he awoke.

She tiptoed in her boots, hoping the creaking floorboards wouldn't wake him. The moonlight spilled over the desk, the papers, the trunks and boxes stacked haphazardly in her path. The toe of her boot struck a box and she froze, watching the steady rise and fall of her boss' chest. She allowed herself a breath, looking down to steady herself in her journey.

In the pale light, a deep blue leather trunk with silver fastenings caught her eye for a moment. It was emblazoned with a name, glimmering back at her in the moonlight. She quickly traversed the last few steps and placed the silver key on the edge of the desk. She danced around the boxes, nearly jogging out of the caravan. She caught her breath outside, shaking the uncomfortable feeling that had come over her, and returned to her tent.  

The next day, she easily forgot about the odd feeling in the caravan, her mind full of how much they still had to do in the few days before their first performance. Christine was busy prioritizing in her mind as they tacked up Cesar. Lately, she had taken to letting Erik deal with the stubborn beast and handed him an apple to feed the horse as she saddled him.

"He's easy to bribe," she winked as she placed the mealy apple in Erik's hand.

"We have that in common," he nodded at the enormous horse in front of them.

Christine laughed and chose a ripe, clean apple from the bin. "Here's your bribe then, sir."

Erik accepted the apple, eye twinkling. "Thank you. We are now satiated," he nodded at the horse as he lead him to the huge clearing away from the circus where they would practice. Despite his playful tone, Christine could tell he was a little nervous. Working with Amber or Raya was one thing, but Cesar and Erik butted heads more often than not in the ring. Christine considered this as they began their morning. She watched from afar as Erik walked the horse around in a circle, the horse’s gait long and loping, which would make it difficult for her to ride him, let alone feel comfortable enough to perform. She reconsidered their practice for today. "Erik," she said, biting into her own apple from her perch on the rock where she sat in the clearing.

"Mmm?" he responded, struggling to urge the lazy horse out of a walk and into a trot. “Oh, come on,” he admonished the stallion.

"Do you want to learn to ride him?"

He paled.

"It would be a good bonding experience for you two," she said with a smile. "And you might learn something."

He pressed his mouth into a line, but his eyes betrayed him behind the thin mask. He was nervous. Christine walked into the ring and reached for the lead rope. "You'll be fine. I won't let you fall," she said, meeting his gaze. His shoulders fell an inch and he nodded. Christine pulled Cesar closer to them. The horse snorted, as if ready to intimidate the poor rider in front of him. 

"Oh stop," Christine admonished to the horse, bringing the stirrups down and untwisting the reins. "Don't be mean to my friend," she added. Erik could mount and dismount – not gracefully, like Christine, but he could physically get on the horse with some effort. Christine held Cesar steady.

"Good boy," she said.

"Thank you," she heard Erik say high above her on the horse. She peered up at him and saw the smirk. She grinned back.

"Yes, well, that remains to be seen," she joked, handing him the reins. She saw Erik pale again. "Don't worry, I'll hold on to the lead for now," she said, gesturing to the rope in her hand. "Now let's get him walking."

Christine stood and watched Erik, slightly stooped over the enormous horse, squeeze his legs to urge the horse forward. Cesar gave a shake of his head but listened to his rider, and Christine gave a sigh of relief.

"He's feeling manageable today," she offered. "Let's see if we can trot."

Erik blanched. Christine gave Cesar a little motivation with the riding crop, and soon Erik was bouncing along on the horse.

"Ah!" He let out surprise at the bumpiness of the ride.

"Erik!" Christine called. "We talked about this. Lean back, that's it. Feel the rhythm of the horse, and kinda...lean into it. There you go."

Stoic and stone-faced, Erik's jaw clenched as the bouncing eased into a rhythm with the horse. He was a fast learner, Christine had to admit.

"Good. Ready to canter?" she asked, and he steeled himself. "Relax. Lean back!"

"It's – kind of  – hard to– when you're – trying not to – fall off and die –" he stammered in rhythm with the horse's heavy foot fall. Christine laughed.

"When you're ready, just squeeze your legs for him to canter – a little harder, yep – heels down!" she reminded him. He was a natural rider, though his face betrayed his sheer terror. "You can smile, Erik!"

"I don't – think that – will help!" he retorted, voice still stilted. It must be taking an immense amount of concentration to stay on the horse. She let him go around the ring a few times, hoping it would relax his body language. It did not, and she let him bring the horse back to a trot, then a walk. She walked up to the horse, the sweating rider rigid on his back.

"You're a natural, Erik," she complimented as she kept her fingers away from Cesar's curious mouth. "You just need to learn to relax."

He nodded, brow furrowed, as if that comment only served to make him more tense. Christine laughed. "You two look good together. Tall horse, tall rider. I look like a little girl on Cesar." She held his bridle as Erik slid off the horse. He clutched the saddle a moment too long, his long legs hovering a few inches off the ground before dropping. He staggered, finding his footing.

There were many benefits to having unlimited time in the day to practice; one of the disadvantages was the July midday heat. Christine peered at the sky. It was past noon. Her stomach growled, her face dripped with sweat.

"Lunch?" she suggested. Erik shrugged.

As Erik returned Cesar to the paddock, Christine dashed off to the canteen. They were late; hopefully there would be some sandwiches left for them. A crowd of workers had gathered; unusual. She pushed through to see a familiar tweed suit standing at a makeshift table. 

"For the heat," Firmin was saying. In front of him, was an enormous, cut watermelon in elegant triangular slices, the cool juice dripping from the slats of the table. She spotted the trapeze girls in the front, waiting impatiently for their turn, and Christine saw her chance.  

"Cecile!" She called, slipping in amongst the girls. She ignored the rumblings of those waiting behind.

"One each," Firmin reminded. Christine nodded along with the girls.

By the time her sin was discovered, Christine was already halfway back to the stables with two slices of cold watermelon and nothing could be done about it.

Erik was leaning on the fence, his hair pushed back, slick with sweat, when she scurried up to him with her hands behind her back.

"Pick an arm," she gestured with a shoulder. Erik stared back.

"Don't trick me," he scowled, and Christine was reminded of his anger at the circus barker with the rigged carnival game. She grinned wider.

"It's not a trick, I promise," she said. "Pick an arm."

"Fine," he sighed, the heat making it hard to protest. He gestured to her right arm. She smiled.

"Stolen goods," she handed him the slice of watermelon, and his eyes went wide. She looked behind him. "We might want to go eat these by the river, in case I'm being followed." She winked and began the trek to the shade of the forest. She heard Erik pick up his pace to follow her.

"I think you're having a bad influence on me," Christine commented as they ate their watermelon against the roots of an old oak whose branches soared over the ripples of their bare feet in the cool stream. She spit a black watermelon seed into the stream, past their toes.

Erik considered the comment in silence, not moving to disagree. This reminded Christine of something.

"What is your last name, Erik?" she asked. She saw a sudden head turn out of the corner of her eye as she looked out over the water.

"Why?" he managed.

She turned. "What is it?"

He hesitated for a moment. "Claudin," he said quietly. Again, he asked. "Why?"

"Oh!" Christine momentarily forgot her watermelon, her jaw dropping. "Erik, I believe Mr. Firmin has your mother's trunk in his office!"

He looked incredulous. "What –"

"I saw it! I saw it last night! I thought it was out of place, such a lovely trunk with such an unusual name - was her name something that started with M?"

"Madeline," he held her gaze, eyes lit up. "What did it look like?"

"It was...blue, I think, with silver fastenings," she said. It was beneath a bunch of papers, I couldn't get a close look."

"That's it!"

"How are we going to get it?" Christine asked, and Erik's eyes dulled.

"What do you mean?"

"Erik," she turned to him. "If this trunk is your mother's, it might have the answers we're looking for!"

He looked away, the excitement of a moment before evaporating.

Oh. That's what he's afraid of. The worst-case scenario as to why this strange man had his mother’s things. Without thinking, Christine extended her free hand to his.

"Erik," she met his sad eyes. "You'll find her. And I'll –  I'll be here. You don't have to do this alone."

He took a breath, looking down at the water rushing around his feet. Finally, he nodded. 

"Let's get this trunk."

Chapter Text

Christine slipped out of her cot, letting her socks get soaked in the wet grass, not daring to risk putting her boots on in the tent and waking Gustave. She slid the shoes on a good distance from her snoring father and headed for the stables to meet Erik.

Her feet squelched through the grass, the icy chill of her wet socks making her shiver. She crossed her arms across her chest as she plodded to the stable. Erik was already waiting for her, his cat-like eyes peering through the fog. He probably didn't have wet socks and a chill, she thought resentfully as she eyed the impatient figure leaning against the fence. When she approached, he held a finger over his lips, his hands sheathed in black leather gloves.

Erik looked her up and down and scowled. Without a word, he turned and headed toward the stable.

"What?" she whispered, following him. He was already digging in his rucksack. A shadow fell across her face, and she realized he had tossed her a black shirt. She felt more clothing ricochet off her legs: black pants.

"Get changed, there isn't much time," he said. She stood, holding the fabric and trying to register what he was suggesting. Oh – he wanted her to change into his clothes. Oh, dear.

She crossed her arms. “This isn’t a train robbery,” she protested. “I’m fine with what I’m wearing.” What was wrong with tan pants and a white shirt?

Erik was already halfway out of the tent. “Yes, perhaps you would like to explain that to Firmin when we’re caught for stealing. What’s the punishment…” He made a show of thinking. “Oh yes, I believe it’s ten years hard labor. I’m sure that will be fun.”

She pulled a face as he disappeared out of the tent.

By the time she was done rolling up the long sleeves and cuffing the pants, she was feeling rather overwhelmed with the whole endeavor. It was funny: Erik always looked presentable, as though dressing in impeccably tailored clothes could counteract a face like his. Yet, now, wearing his shirt she could feel all the tiny mended patches that made up the garment: a million mending threads scratched against her skin. She wondered, not for the first time, what the rest of his body looked like, if his scarred arms and scarred shirts were any indication.

She breathed in his scent as she retied her boots; he always smelled nice, which was a feat in the circus. Something earthy, like myrrh, she guessed. She heard Erik clear his throat outside and she straightened up, as ready as she could be. She was grateful she had worn a belt – it was the thin strip of leather around her waist that was holding up the entire arrangement.

She felt very silly, but Erik barely deigned to give her a glance. "Not a word," he reminded her as they stepped the long way around the tents to Firmin's office. The manager had been spotted, rather far into drink, returning to his sleeping quarters at the front of the trailer that housed his workspace: that would leave the little office relatively unguarded from the back. Christine only hoped he was a heavy sleeper.

Erik put out an arm and she froze as he scaled the wheel of the caravan to peer in the window. The coast was clear.

The plan was simple, as Erik repeatedly had emphasized to an incredibly worried Christine: enter, open the trunk, empty its contents, and leave the empty trunk where it sat in the caravan without leaving a trace that it had been disturbed. Christine wound around to the door and pressed her ear to it. Firmin's snores, deep in the caravan, were still strong enough to reverberate through the door. Christine nodded and Erik followed her inside.

Silently, Erik slid through the room. Christine crept behind him. It seemed every footfall echoed through the space, deafeningly loud. She heard a floorboard creak and froze. Erik stared, wide-eyed, back at her from where he stood over the trunk. Then, she heard it. The silence.

The rhythmic snoring, consistent, had stopped.

Christine felt Erik's arm grab hers and pull her against the wall, in a tiny, shadowed crevice between boxes. His leather-clad hand was firmly pressed over her mouth, and he was right to do so: she was about to exclaim before he had silenced her.

For two, terrible beats that felt like minutes, the caravan was silent. Christine didn’t dare breathe, didn’t dare look anywhere else but into the blazing eyes of her captor, who held her tight against him in the narrow space. She remembered the sentence: ten years hard labor for stealing. How much for Erik’s crimes? She didn’t want to be the reason he ever found out.

She could feel the soft pants of his breath rustling the errant curls sprung free from her braid, the pitch black of their hiding space lit only by the odd light of his eyes glowing from within the depths of the black mask. The last time she had been this close to him, she had kissed him, had known what it was like to push the dark hair from his face and taste the sweat from his upper lip.

As quickly as it had stopped, a hard snort from the bedroom told them Firmin was back to snoring, back to sleep. Christine let out a sigh; was she…disappointed, she wondered, when Erik’s hand slid from her mouth, when his hand left her waist? The set of his mouth had not changed, nor the apathy in his eye. Did he care at all?

Erik moved out of the shadows with little ceremony, leaving her, for a moment, lingering with these questions in the dark. He moved the other boxes from the top of the trunk in silence. He pointed to her without a word, motioning for her to help him move the trunk away from the wall so the enormous lid could swing wide open on its ornate hinges. He did not acknowledge her again, instead beginning to sift beneath thick fabric and lace – Christine wondered if it was his mother's clothes. He seemed to be looking for something, shoving items so fast into his rucksack that Christine couldn't begin to make them out. Finally, he locked eyes with Christine, who stepped forward, avoiding that squeaky floorboard this time, and began to help, him slowly, slowly, lift and push the chest back against the wall. She was so busy placing the items back on top of the trunk, exactly as they were, that she hadn’t heard the snoring stop again.

"Miss Daae?" She froze at the voice. She looked to where Erik had been standing next to her, but to her surprise, he was nowhere to be seen. Slowly, she turned inch by inch to face her fate.

"Oh, Mr. Firmin," she said as if she hadn't expected him to turn up in his own trailer. "I was just–" She drew a blank. “Looking for, uh–”

“Looking for?” Firmin repeated back to her, skeptical.

“Uh–”

In that moment, an explosion rang out just outside the trailer.

“What on EARTH?” Firmin bellowed, wrapping his dressing gown around himself as he sprinted out of the trailer, Christine scrambling behind.

Dogs howled, the mules brayed, birds cawed at being disturbed from their nighttime slumber. Though they were far from the stable, she could hear Cesar whinnying with fright, probably sending the herd into conniptions. People poked their heads out of tents and stirred in alarm from where they slept under the stars. Lanterns were lit as people asked, "Did you hear that?" "Did anyone see anything?" "I thought I saw someone behind those trees..." Marguerite peered out of her caravan, and Christine dashed over to her.

"Christine," she smiled, face glistening from her cold cream. She wrapped her robe tighter around her. "What was that?"

Christine was about to answer when she saw a shadow dash behind a tree. "I –"

“Christine, are you alright?”

“Fine…” yes, there was something there… “Just – I have to go check on the horses. Stay inside.”

Christine jogged past Marguerite’s caravan towards the woods. Before she reached the tree line she felt a hand grab hers and pull her deeper into the night.

"Wha–" she hit Erik's chest with a thump. "What did you do!"

In the darkness, she could feel his laughter against her chest. "A distraction. It worked, didn't it?"

"Yes, but–what was that?" She was suddenly aware of how tightly he was holding her, and she broke away from him. "What did you do?"

"There's nothing a few harmless pyrotechnics can't solve," he said matter-of-factly, moving through the trees. "Now all you have to do is get back before they notice you're missing from your tent." He swung his rucksack against his back and set off toward the stables.

Christine shook her head. “Who are you?!” she asked the retreating figure. He gave an exaggerated shrug and laughed as she followed him through the trees.

"That's it, we can't do it." Christine swore. She leaped off Raya onto the thick meadow grass behind the stables. Erik tilted his head from where he stood in the center of the field. He had chosen a dark shirt today…Christine hadn’t had the boldness to ask if it was the one she wore the night of the trunk-heist. He waited for her, an insolent hand on his narrow hip.

"We can't!" She covered her sweat-soaked face with her hands and let out a groan. "Erik! We can't perform tomorrow, we can’t, we aren't ready."

"Don't say that," he said, wary of the person now kneeling in the grass covering her face. Raya snorted her agreement and continued to graze.

She uncovered her face to turn to him, brows furrowed. "I'm saying it. Not only are we inconsistent, but we aren't doing anything new! Nothing. I could have just done this routine all by myself."

Erik nodded slowly, pressing his lips tight.

Christine stared at him, a fluttering in her chest disrupting her thoughts. “What?”

“Nothing…”

“Erik, what are you thinking?”

“Just…” He looked down at her, warm eyes blazing with a thought Christine yearned to hear. The tall grass next to her was soon disturbed by long legs folding themselves as Erik sat next to her. “You said it yourself. Everything you are doing you could do by yourself.”

“Yes…” She could not, for the life of her, follow his line of thinking.

“Could you, in theory, do the routine without me on the lead rope?”

“That’s what I was doing before you anyway!” she reminded him.

“Yes, I know!”

“Erik,” she looked at him carefully. “Are you quitting on me?”

“No, no!” He looked up. “But perhaps…”

Christine’s heart was racing, equal parts fear and anticipation. Surely he wouldn’t leave her, not after everything. She watched him choose his words carefully, the minute expressions beneath the thin leather hesitant and thoughtful. It was almost comical to her to consider how illegible his face used to seem; the mask was no barrier to a kaleidoscope of emotions that flickered across his face, all in turns infuriatingly confusing and endlessly curious, a puzzle waiting to be fully solved. “Perhaps I could help you in some other way?”

“How -- Erik, I don’t mean to be rude, but you’ve barely been able to keep your seat in the saddle last I checked. Are you now telling me you can do somersaults?”

He rolled his eyes. “No, no, obviously not. But…” He traced an abstract pattern in the long grass between where they sat. “Maybe there’s something else I could do, other ways I could help? Is there something–”

“I don’t need help –” she bristled automatically. He frowned. “Sorry – I’m just – I don’t know what another set of hands could possibly –”

Something struck her mind just then, and her face must have changed because Erik asked, “What?”

“Erik, stand up a second.”

He looked at her funny, but he obeyed. She nodded approvingly. “Go stand next to Raya.”

He made no noise of protest, walking to the grazing horse and putting a hand on the saddle to keep the snorting horse from wandering away from him. Just as she thought, his chest came to Raya’s withers, his head nearly at eye level with the horse.

She got to her feet, brushing the grass and dirt from her breeches. “Alright,” she said, the ideas coming to her before they were fully formed, a tendency that always made her father anxious.

Erik watched her as Raya grazed next to them, taking advantage of her trainer’s distractions to inhale mouthfuls of green grass. He stared with his usual, measured ambivalence; the only sign he was nervous was the way his fingers found the buckles of the saddle and fiddled with them as she circled the horse and rider.

When she was facing him, she said the words without thinking it through.

“Catch me!”

In retrospect, she probably should have asked before running at him at full speed, her boots digging into the soft earth, her arms pumping as she dashed across the distance between them. She definitely should have clarified that he even knew how to do this, to lift her so they both didn’t fall into a tangled mass of limbs on the ground, joints sprained and bones broken from the collision. At best, she should have ensured yes you are strong enough to catch me.

But she didn’t have to, because when she launched herself into the air his sure, steady hands found her waist and held her fast. He stepped back at the impact but did not waver, holding her aloft for a brief, brilliant second, seeing the world from above even Erik’s vantage, her arms outstretched before he lowered her back down to stand between his feet.

“Thank you,” she panted, his own unsteady breath on her upturned face, her neck. Of course he could do it, he could do anything, the potential of this… She realized he had not released his hold on her waist. She didn’t dare step back; hoped her disappointment didn’t show when he did, his fingers trailing burning paths along their lingering exit from her skin.

“Dare I hope you are going to explain yourself before you launch yourself at me again?” he asked, his voice hoarse from the ragged inhale he took. He had bent to lower her slowly to the ground, his face was near enough to hers that if she wanted, she could stand on tiptoe, close that space between them, taste the salt on his lips –

Raya snorted behind them, and Erik’s face moved the inches away from hers that would prevent such a brash gesture; she shook her head as if that would be enough to undo such thoughts. He had made it abundantly clear he saw her as a work partner, an accomplice at best, a liability at worst; the night in the forest could have been years ago from how different they seemed.

But he had asked her a question, and she had an answer. “I know how you can help me, Erik,” she breathed.

He looked down at his hands, flexed the hand that must have taken the brunt of her body weight. “Will it hurt?” The corner of his mouth turned up in a sardonic smile.

“No!” she exclaimed.

Erik laughed, a perfect sound, despite its volume, its odd, barking nature – the laugh of someone who had little opportunity to laugh before. He was rolling his eyes, reaching for the horse’s bridle, and laughing. Something about it nestled in her chest and she watched him, carefully memorizing the way the light caught the black of his hair, his shirt, the mud on his boots, his fingers interlaced with the silver fastenings, the way he was a shadow against Raya’s white-grey coat. The daunting task ahead of them was only a whisper in the back of her mind, a mind fully occupied by the way he anticipated what the horse would do, that he knew the next steps would involve the mare without Christine even needing to say it. She knew, of course, that this feeling blooming in her chest would get her in trouble.

So she shook the dreamy lassitude from her limbs and instead laughed with him, took the horse from his grasp, her fingers brushing his in the gesture. She could still be all business; she would have to be. She turned her eyes away from his watchful gaze and redirected it to the too-loose girth on the saddle. “Well!” She sighed, a last ditch attempt to get his presence out of her system. “We’ll have to get to work if we hope to be ready by tomorrow, won’t we?”

Chapter Text

The electricity of the circus crackled and the horses pawed at the ground. They had grown thin-skinned to the noise of the crowd in their time off, and even Raya snorted with suspicion. Erik fidgeted with the black mask. Their act had, unbeknownst to them, been advertised liberally by Firmin, and everyone in the surrounding villages had packed the arena to see them.

Christine had never had top billing before. She scratched at her head, dislodging the star headband on her freshly brushed ringlets.

"Careful," Erik said from the shadows, stepping in front of her. They both reached for the dangling headband, their hands touching as they did so. Christine dropped her hand as though his touch burned her. In a way, it had. The brief moment they had shared yesterday had shaken her worse than she had first realized; that moment had to be squashed here and now. They could not afford any mistakes. She closed her eyes and let him affix the headband and pin it more securely to her head.

"Nervous?" he asked.

She considered lying, for a moment. Her stomach had been in knots since they finished rehearsing that afternoon, and the sensation was getting worse by the minute. "Yes," she breathed into his chest. He always looked so serious all in black; she felt silly in her glittering skirts and ridiculous headband.

"You'll do fine," he said, and she blinked up at the rare compliment. "You were born to perform.” His eyes stayed fixed on her tiara, his hands lingering in her hair for a second too long. "When you hear the crowd, when you feel the light on you – all this will be a distant memory."

She nodded, eyes closed. She could envision it. "What if I fall again?" She asked a stupid question. She knew, very intimately, what that would feel like. This time she would not be so lucky: she would be falling head first, her neck would snap on impact.

"Christine Daae," Erik said, leaning over her. She opened her eyes to see he had gotten much closer to her. His yellow eyes blazed. "You will not fall.” She could feel his knees brush the hem of her skirt. “I won’t let you."

His fingertips were still hovering by her ear, and before she could stop herself she found his hand and pressed his cool palm to her cheek. She closed her eyes to the sensation, knowing he would soon tear it away; she was nothing if not selfish in her motives. The show would soon begin and he would soon leave her during the day to return to the freak show, and her life at the circus would be lonely once more.

A moment passed, then a moment more and he did not pull his hand from hers. Her eyes flew open to see the distant limelight glimmering in his irises. He opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. He seemed to collect himself, the tendons of his neck flexing with the effort of speech.

“Christine, I-”

He trailed off at the sound of triumphant horns, the trill of the violin, and the thundering of drums that signaled the beginning of their act. His fingertips slid slowly from her grasp; her hand fell to her roiling stomach. Nerves; that’s all it was. Nerves had made her bold; perhaps the same had prompted his unusual reaction

She could hear the ringmaster announcing them, the band playing an exciting overture. Erik took the reins that were leaving a mark in her sweaty palms, and she mounted Raya. She double-checked her saddle was secure: of course it was, Erik had seen to it himself – and he led them through the flap of the tent to the roar of the crowd.

The lights blinded her, the cacophony of sound deafening. She couldn't remember the last time she grinned so wide, sat so tall in the saddle. It was the greatest high in the world coursing through her veins, the adrenaline-on-adrenaline. She was invincible, she was the star, she was golden. She couldn't make out individual faces in the crowd, but she could feel everyone's hopes pinned on her, all their excitement directed toward her. It knocked the wind out of her, and she sucked in a breath, the air thick with anticipation.

She cast a glance at her partner and was rendered shocked once more. He was resplendent, chest broad and proud. Every step into the center of the ring was intentional, his body facing outward, his lopsided smile wide from behind the mask. He still wore his usual black, the brocade waistcoat she had seen before, but no longer to hide – his pose, the voluminous fabric of his shirt sleeves, his broad step all commanded attention; but not toward him. He was directing that magnetism towards her, his arms out, presenting the girl on the horse to the audience, who whooped and hollered. She met his eye and he grinned wider. Did she see him wink from under the mask?

Seated side-saddle, she let Erik bring Raya into a trot, then a canter, speeding around the circle. The audience quieted, waiting for something to react to. Christine swung her legs behind her, holding onto the saddle and pulling herself onto her feet, standing with arms outstretched to the audience. The audience’s applause built as Erik coaxed the horse faster.

Christine took a breath, waiting for the horse to match the needed pace before leaping into the air. The audience took a collective breath. Easily, as if she had been doing this her whole life, Christine somersaulted in a full canter. She let herself breathe a moment as she grinned to the audience.

From Raya, she pulled into a headstand. It was simple, though, when the horse was under full control; when you trusted the man at the end of the rope. She eased back into the saddle for a moment before Erik prodded the horse into an impressive-looking rear, her hooves kicking into the air.

The audience screamed and whistled as Christine flipped and twisted her way around the ring, the horse prancing in time, rearing under Erik's command.

She saw him give a little nod and she leaned forward to unlatch the lunge line from the horse’s bridle, Erik yanking it back towards him. The ringmaster made a show of asking, “What’s this? What is she doing?” The audience ate up the tension.

Raya could run circles in her sleep, let herself be urged on by Christine herself, thundering hooves circling the ring. Erik stayed in the center, his arm aloft to direct the audience’s attention.

She looked back in terror at him, knowing what was to come. Was she really going to do this? She knew her father was somewhere in the band, no doubt praying that his daughter made it out of the performance unscathed. Should she risk everything for the applause of strangers?

Erik’s eyes did not leave hers. "You can do this," he mouthed. She nodded back. She could. She wanted to. She took one more steadying breath.

One two three four…she counted the gait. Out of the corner of her eye, Erik stepped toward the side of the ring across from her. She pulled herself to stand on the saddle, her knees bent to keep her balance with Raya running hard under her. The audience roared.

Five paces away from Erik…she could do this. She had done it a dozen times between yesterday and today. However, that was in the meadow. On soft grass, at a trot, the fall was inconsequential. At this speed, on hard dirt, it was another story. She could still feel the burn of gravel on her raw skin. The fever of infection. Would the adrenaline be enough to dull the pain if she fell on her neck? Would she know she failed?

Four paces to Erik. She readied her arms. 3…2…1…

Now.

She leaped from the saddle into the deceptively strong arms waiting to catch her. She held her breath; her ribs screamed at the impact of the bodice in his hands when he caught her. Her limbs were outstretched despite every bone in her body yelling at her to grab onto him, to hold on and get to the ground and safety for God’s sake, but she trusted him. This realization jolted her more than the impact of the leap; yes, she trusted him completely and totally.

Then, her stomach lurched; she felt his hands slip from her waist, gravity insisting she meet the earth, despite Erik’s arms urging her to the contrary. Don’t drop me, don’t drop me, she repeated as the momentum of her body threatened the promise he made.

She sucked in a breath as his hands left her waist, thrusting her up up up – and she forced her body to spin, turned herself back to the horse racing away from them.

She reached for the loops of the saddle with desperate hands; she needed to make contact or else she would fall onto the thundering back hooves, face against hoof – someone in the audience screamed.

He had tossed her just right, her palm found leather without her even needing to reach, and she yanked herself parallel to the saddle and then back, seated.

“Yes!” She heard the man now far behind her yell. The audience was on their feet, the band playing a triumphant flourish, the ringmaster saying something barely audible over the roar of the crowd.

Erik was back at the center of the ring. “Do your trick,” he called to her. She didn’t need to clarify what trick he was referring to, still felt the keen sting of gravel, but the adrenaline of acing their throw made it not seem so daunting.

“You can do it,” Erik was nodding, she nodded back, she could. They had done all this work. Didn’t she need to see it through? Didn’t she want him to be proud of her?

Raya snorted, her gait constant and sure. She rounded the bend, pulled herself into the handstand. 1…2….

She flipped. The crowd gasped. Someone, near the band, yelled "NO!" The handle met her fingers as if it was waiting for her to grab, a last minute addition of Erik’s. “For safety,” he had said. “Careful,” she had retorted. “I might get the idea that you care if I die out there.”

Her hair cascaded neatly downward to the thundering hooves. Her headband glittered in the light, her grin shining as she faced the horrified crowd with an easy smile as if she had never imagined the trick going wrong herself. For good measure, she waved with her free hand. She said a prayer the last of Erik’s surprises would work just as well.

Then, somewhere in the saddle a soft "pop." The audience let out a collective ahh. Christine looked up from her upside-down pose.

Tiny fireworks sparkled from the seams of the saddle. How they were triggered, Christine couldn't tell. All she knew was she saw the conspiratorial grin of a former magician as he let out a small laugh while he watched the horse circle the ring. She closed her eyes, letting herself laugh as well.

It was spectacular.

They were spectacular.

She hung from the saddle as long as her arms would allow, the sparklers shining and cascading painless sparks on her outstretched legs. Raya did not startle at the flames, and Christine knew Erik had prepared the mare ahead of time to be so docile.

Then the sparklers flared out and extinguished. She carefully pulled herself back up onto the saddle as the crowds whistled and stomped their feet. She waved and grinned; the ringleader seemed genuinely beside himself as he bellowed his disbelief at the death-defying-duo. The band blared a celebratory tune, and Christine wished she could bottle this elation forever, already missing the current high before it was over. Finally, she looked down at the man applauding her in the center of the ring, and he led them out of the arena and into the merciful coolness of the midsummer night.

She was off the horse before Erik could turn, and she ran at him, her body hitting his solid form as she hugged him. He froze, arms at his side, as she gripped him hard.

"That was amazing! You were – did you see how they – and the audience was like," she babbled, the performance high making her silly. She pulled away, hands gripping his forearms, shaking him.

He looked down at her, an odd expression on his face…was it pride? "You did it."

"And you caught me –”

“Yes, I’ll be sending for the doctor in the morning –”

“And I didn’t fall, I thought for certain –”

"I never had a doubt in my mind –" Erik smiled, finally holding her back, letting her be close to him. "You were so…dazzling, Christine. I –” he began.

Christine pulled his face down the few inches between them, interrupting his speaking mouth with hers. She kept a hand on his masked cheek, the hard material against her soft palm. She didn't dare move, for a moment, fearing his retribution; to her pleasant surprise, his lips opened to hers, his hand finding her back and pulling her closer to him. The sweat of the performance danced on her tongue for a moment before dissipating. Their bodies coursed with one racing heartbeat; only then did she slide a thumb under the mask, as though to remove it. He paused, pulled away from her.

"I want to see you," she whispered, her hands holding his torso out of necessity as much as need. She wasn't sure a second refusal wouldn't shatter her.

He hesitated at her words. "Are you sure?" he asked.

She nodded. “I’ve wanted to do this for quite a while now.” The mask came away in her hand, warmed from the skin beneath. She kept it at her side, her other hand not daring to let go of his waist, should he try to escape again.

But he did not run, not this time. Carefully, as if he, too, was afraid she would flee, he let his long fingers wrap around the base of her head to pull her into another kiss.

Christine wasn't sure how long they were standing, kissing and finally breaching that long-held distance with eager hands, but when the circus began to let out they were met with a soft cough. Christine jumped back, grateful that the night hid her blush. Erik stood, in a daze, fingertips touching his lips.

It was just Marguerite, her shawl wrapped tightly around her. Christine opened her mouth to make an excuse, but the woman was already well on her way to her trailer, walking quickly as though not to interrupt.

Christine laid the back of her hand against her cheek; she was red hot.

Erik cleared his throat "I'm sorr-"

She stilled Erik by taking his hand. "Don't apologize."

Though Marguerite was long gone, Christine knew that they would never get privacy in a campsite packed with her father's friends and hundreds of audience members about to exit the show for the evening. Erik’s hand didn’t leave her waist, his clever fingers having found the gap between bodice and skirt. She gave an impish grin, finding the way he skated his hands around her middle a precious thing, intoxicating in the earnestness of the gesture. He acted like she was tethering him; to let go would be to disappear entirely, to be lost.

His eyes caught the moonlight, glimmered in a similar, drunken excitement when she smiled up at him. He shook his head a little, his cool hand pushing an errant curl from her sweat-drenched face. “What are you thinking?” he asked, the murmur of his voice a deep counterpoint to the rising sound of the cicadas in the wood behind the tents where they stood.

She laughed when he pulled her closer. "Want to go for a ride?"

Raya was the fastest of her horses, but Erik kept his seat and Cesar had no trouble keeping up as they soared through the rolling hills of rural France, past the tiny lights of little villages with only the stars to guide them. The heat of the August day had cooled to the sweet breeze only a handful of summer nights could boast, tantalizing in its possibility. Christine let go of the reins and held out her arms, the wind whipping her bare arms.

The glitter of her skirts played in the moonlight, her hair brushing her bare back. She was a six year old girl again, learning to ride, tearing through meadows on her pony; she also had never felt more adult. The kisses in the aftermath of the show had startled her. She had vowed not to try to kiss Erik again, had tried to distance those feelings from her professional relationship with him.

But this time he had kissed her back.

He had pulled her against him, he had smiled.

She turned to her left to see the dark figure on the galloping stallion, his eyes on her, not the earth in front of him. She broke into a wild smile, and leaned her head back farther.

"Isn't this wonderful?" she asked.

He gave a short laugh, the gesture knocking him loose in the saddle and he scrambled to regain his balance. "Yes," he managed.

The thick forest opened to an enormous clearing, the dark trunks of pine and chestnut looming over them on all sides. Christine leaned forward to pull the reins back up, slowing Raya to a walk, the horse and her rider breathing hard. Erik and Cesar came to a stop, Cesar giving an indignant snort that he allowed himself to be so controlled by this man on his back.

"That means he likes you," Christine noted, nodding at Cesar.

Erik looked up at the enormous stallion. "I don't know much about horses, but I'm not sure that's the case." He gave a reassuring pat to Cesar regardless. "I feel fine about you too, boy."

The weariness of the day came over her like a blanket, the adrenaline finally ebbing from her system. She dismounted, her eyes on the stars above them. From the soft thump behind her, she knew Erik followed suit.

He cast a suspicious eye on the heavens. "The stars have changed," he commented. "Since we last saw them."

Christine nodded, grateful to find some safe, common ground. "They do that. Well, I think we do that. The earth, that is. We won't see the constellation Gemini, for instance, until January. There's Hercules, there. There's a season for them." She pointed up. She was suddenly aware of how little clothing she was wearing, her shoulders bare in the breeze of the night.

Raya stooped her head to graze and Christine dropped the bridle. Erik was close to her – it would be easy to bridge such a gap, to reach out her hand. Her feet moved of their own accord; she heard herself speak.

"And you? Have you changed your mind, Erik?" She brushed her fingertips against his clenched hand.

At her touch, his hand released and she intertwined hers with his. It was a delicious feeling, to have his hand in hers. His brow furrowed at her question.

She looked away, unable to bear the way her heart burned. "That night, when I kissed you – and you left –"

She could not see his eyes in the darkness, could not possibly dare to decode his expression – only his head tilted, slightly, considering her. She felt the queer urge to pull her hand away, to laugh and say it was all a joke, that she couldn’t possibly be baring her feelings under the moonlight, that she was just so happy he was her friend, nothing more. But his fingers wrapped tighter around her hand and she was stuck, unable to move.

She craned her neck upward; she was close enough to feel his breath on her lips and they parted involuntarily in response. The cool night air was engulfed in the singular flame of his mouth meeting hers: careful, gentle, certain. Lightning crackled through her spine: he did not run, did not pull away, let her touch him. Answers to questions she did not remember asking slid into place, a symphony from her fingertips to her toes.

As though to solidify what she already supposed, he pulled away. "I never changed my mind," he said. "I thought, that night…before…" He gently pulled her hand away from his cheek, and she closed her fingers over his, waiting patiently. "I thought you felt sorry for me. And that's why you kissed me."

"Oh, Erik," she breathed. "How could you think that?"

A familiar expression of exasperation came over him; she smiled at the gesture, greeting it as an old familiar foe. He traced an unsteady rhythm on the back of her hand. "How could I not? The thought that someone – that you – genuinely – even now," he stammered. "That you care for me, in some way...it was so foreign a concept to me." He gave a soft smile. "I don't exactly have a lot of experience with this kind of thing."

Christine smiled, but did not dare laugh, not when his hand was still cool against her hot palm. "I do – ,” She cleared her throat, struggling with words for the first time in her life. “I – I care for you, Erik. For a long while, I didn't understand that about myself; God, how I used to hate you! But now – " he interrupted her with a kiss, releasing her hand from his to reach for her waist. She smiled under the kiss, yielding to him.

When her hand returned to his cheek he didn't move it away, instead letting her trace down his jaw. His hands stayed obediently still; Christine explored the opening of his shirt at the base of his neck, noticing which little touches evoked a gasp from her all-too-willing partner. She buzzed with electricity, arching towards him.

“Can we?” she asked, looking at the thick meadowgrass beneath them. She pulled the horse blanket out from under Raya’s saddle and laid it on the damp grass between them, gesturing for him to join her.

Around them, cicadas and crickets rang up a chorus of sound, the half-moon above them illuminating the awe in Erik's eyes as he took her in. The tearing of grass from the horses' direction told them they were safe; no wolves would venture out without warning from the beasts.

She kicked off her silver boots and laid out on her back, the galaxies visible in the dark night, begging Erik to join her. He shook his head, stayed sitting, safely, a foot away from her.

“Come look at the stars, Erik.”

She did not know if she meant the intricate stars dotting her dress, or the ones above her, but he acquiesced, the blanket shifting as he lay his thin frame next to her.

She could feel Erik's every movement next to her, the tiny space between them. She felt as if she could explode, her blood pulsing through every limb, her heartbeat in her stomach. she had dreamed of this moment dozens of times in the quiet of her tent. To have him so close without contact, now that she knew what it felt like to have Erik touch her, was unbearable.

She reached, deliberately and slowly, to his far arm. Taking his hand, she guided it to her waist – his home base, a safe place for his hand to be. The boned bodice of her glittering dress meant she could barely feel him. He had to prop himself up on his elbow, leaning over her, to reach her waist. Her heart was in her ears. Should she do it? Hell, she already cheated certain death that night. A little more risk wouldn't hurt.

She guided his hand up to the neckline of her dress, blood racing to color her blush. His eyes widened, and she gave a little nod. His fingertips skated over her chest, which was rising and falling fast against his touch; Erik seemed he wasn't breathing at all, he only held a peculiar, intense eye contact.

Unable to bear such scrutiny, Christine sat up, tilting her head up to kiss him, mouth opening to his. She let out a sigh when he discovered the space between her bodice and her chest, just enough space for his hand to find her breasts and trace tantalizing patterns over her nipples. Her breath caught, as did his. Their eyes met, both of them in very uncharted territory.

“Are you alright?” he asked, voice husky with desire.

She laughed. “Yes, yes quite…alright.” She twisted her hand away from him, reached for the ribbon to untie the bodice of her dress. “I hate this thing…it’s so itchy.”

His hand enveloped hers, stilling it. He leaned forward, so much so that his exposed cheek hovered above her bare shoulder; she could feel his staggered breath on her skin, the hairs above her ear rustling against jagged flesh. The susurrus of silk pulling against the silver eyelets made her look at him.

He froze.

She gave a little nod; “please,” she coaxed. He unfastened the dress completely.

Sitting in her petticoats, the rest of her bare to the world, it took little convincing to relieve Erik of his shirt. His lean figure shone in the pale moonlight, giving him a ghostly quality that had Christine, for a moment, second-guessing his corporality.

Christine could hear very little of the cricket’s song, such was the pounding in her head of her heart. Erik looked shell-shocked. She knelt, reaching for his hands.

"Are you alright?" she whispered, his hands ice in hers. He seemed bewildered, shocked at the course of events. She could see the scars on his arms, some new, some only visible the way the scar tissue was slightly raised in the moonlight. She tried not to stare, instead holding his hands to her bare chest, warming them. He splayed his hand over her sternum, the thin skin the only thing between his fingers and her heart, racing. He seemed to react to it, surprised he could feel it.

"Are you?" he asked. She nodded. His hand moved upward, tracing the hollow of her throat, wrapping around the back of her neck. "You're so – "

Christine filled in what he was about to say. "Scrawny?" she joked. "Ridiculous? Pushy?"

"Perfect," he whispered, running his thumb over her collarbone. "You're so perfect, and I'm – "

She stilled his self-deprecation by putting a hand to his cheek. "Radiant," she filled in. "Magnetic. Thoughtful," She kissed his forehead, his scarred cheeks. "You're the first person I've ever met like you, Erik. But I think we're meant for each other. I think we were supposed to meet." She laughed a little. “To torture each other.”

He paused her hand at his cheek. "I've never – felt – " he stammered.

Christine grinned. "Isn't it scary?" He nodded. "I'm petrified," she smiled. She slid a finger under the waistband of his trousers and he let out a soft whimper. She could feel him straining under the fabric of his pants and she danced a hand over him.

Something about this emboldened him; he growled and laid Christine out on her back on the blankets, hovering over her, his bare chest on hers, breathing hard. His hair fell onto her face; she urged his trousers off with her free hand. The nerves had dissipated into an animalistic craving deep in her stomach.

His nervous face told her to stop.

“How about…” she reached for his cheek, found his lips easily this time. She smoothed his furrowed brow. “You keep doing this. And we worry about the other stuff later.”

He was happy to kiss her – very happy, in fact. It seemed she was not the only one who soon found their behavior unbearably chaste; his fingers found the waistband of her petticoats and boldly slipped a hand beneath them.

She gasped into his mouth, the sparklers from her performance an apt comparison for the way he made her feel.

There was a wicked curiosity in his burning gaze, scalding her with looks and hands alike, dragging his fingertips against her and relishing her reaction, noting what made the greatest impression. His newfound confidence paired with uncertainty made her crave a way to validate him, to tell him how well he was doing – very, very well.

She wrapped a bold leg around his back and startled him, reached for the fastenings of his trousers and hoped her inexperienced hands weren’t shaking too much. He pulled away with tentative insecurity.

“What – ”

“I’m sure – ” she said before she could second guess herself. She was here, wasn’t she? Weren’t they just atoms in some giant, cosmic mess, and weren’t they made of the same stuff as the stars that they laid under, and didn’t that mean something? Wasn’t that a sign that they were destined? All she knew was that she was feeling very much like she was made of incandescent stardust at this very moment, and that the star-stuff in every atom in her body was begging for him to be closer to her. And so she pulled his hips closer to her. Gone were the hesitant looks and soft kisses; he understood, by some cosmic miracle, and filled her beyond what she thought her body capable of.

After a moment, adjusting to this new sensation, she spoke. “Uh – Erik?”

“Yes?” he panted over her.

She tried not to laugh. God, not now. But it had to be said. “You can…move, you know.”

He looked down at himself. “Oh. Right. Yes.”

He shifted above her. She gasped.

“Are you ok? Did I hurt you?” the panicked voice above her asked, hands freezing around her.

“No,” she breathed. “Quite the opposite.”

“Really?”

She smiled, ran a hand through his hair. “Really. Now…don’t stop.”

"Oh, Erik," she whispered into the summer night; she could live in this feeling forever. She would give away all earthly possessions to feel him on top of her, to hear him whisper her name like a prayer, to be crushed by the weight of their love. Love. It wasn't the first time she had thought it, about others - always in abstract, never in practice. But now, here was Erik, and he was real, and she loved him. She wanted to say it now, but she held it in, a warm little secret in her chest. There would be a better time; now was not the time for words.

Too soon, Erik whispered, "oh no," and pulled away quickly. Christine was left with a jarring emptiness. She pulled herself up, arms folded over her chest as Erik looked down in what she could only identify as horror at her bare stomach.

"Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt you?" she asked. He shook his head, shoulders heaving. He pulled her in for a kiss, her lips now tender from bruising passion.

“No, no…the opposite.” He looked…bewildered. He hurriedly scrubbed at her tender stomach with his shirt. She stilled his hand with hers.

She couldn’t help but smile; Erik scrambling to appease her and finding himself completely out of his depth was quickly becoming her favorite private joke. It was not like his arrogance was an act; nor was this insecurity – they paired together to make this wonderfully complicated person, who, for reasons unknown to her, had been dropped into her world to disrupt her odd little life. Sweat stuck to her skin like dew and she shivered.

She was cold; this seemed to jostle some mechanism in his brain and he scrambled to his own grazing horse, got the blanket, wrapped the hay-covered flannel around her. She thanked him; he seemed uncomfortable still.

“What?” she asked, arms wrapped tight around her cooling skin.

“Are you…alright? Are you happy?” he stammered, fear touching the edges of his irises.

She considered this question; considered Erik kneeling next to her, fussing over her, the marred alabaster skin of his bare chest glistening in the cool night air above her. Her fingertips ached to touch him again. “Yes,” she said. “I am happy. But I have an idea of what would make me happier…” She pulled him back down to the blanket with a devilish smile.

They slept in each other's arms, the second saddle blanket over themselves. Christine was surprised at how quickly Erik fell asleep, a hand in the cushion of her curls. She stayed up a little longer. She watched his chest rise and fall, even and deep. Did she feel different? Physically, a bit; she could feel her muscles grow sore from the past day. He slept flat on his back, a testament to his exhaustion; up close, she could see the space where the nose never grew, the thin skin stretched over bone, giving him a skeletal appearance. She traced a hand over his distorted brow, under his eyes, over his thin, almost blue eyelids. She combed his dark hair away from his face. In the dark of the wood, she dared a wolf to emerge. She would face an entire pack to defend this tormented boy.

She traced her fingers over the raised edges of all his arms’ scars, starting at his neck and sheathing his arms like a sleeve of tattoos, each with its own story Christine couldn't begin to fathom. A jagged one, the deepest, it seemed, ran straight down one inner arm from elbow to wrist. She shivered. Even his wrists had marks from shackles long since removed.

She remembered Erik's mother, her fate a constant shadow in his life. What would possess a woman to leave her child, especially one so sensitive, so brilliant? What would have to happen to tear her from her only family? Her mind filled in the blanks with horrifying ways that Erik's mother's trunk could have ended up in Firmin's trailer. She sent a silent prayer to the woman, wherever she was: in this life or the next.

The next morning, they blearily woke and busied themselves dressing. Suddenly, in the light of day, their nudity was more stark, and they dressed quickly, facing away from each other. Christine's muscles were very sore, and she rode side-saddle. If Erik noticed, he didn't say anything. The only proof Christine had that the previous night had happened was the soft hug Erik had pulled her into before mounting his horse and heading them back to the camp in the early hours. They spoke very little on the long ride back, but it was a comfortable silence.

"Christine!" Cecile met her at the outskirts of camp, the trapeze girls weaving through the bustle with baskets of various items.

Christine smiled at the girl. The harsh words she had said about Erik had not been forgiven, but in the lingering haze of the previous night Christine felt more forgiving.

"Cecile! What's happening?" It seemed the camp was electrified with activity. Erik pulled up Cesar next to her.

"We just heard!" Cecile exclaimed, seemingly so distracted she didn't notice her friend's odd dress, or her partner next to her. "We head to Perros! Today!"

Christine's eyes widened with excitement. Erik's brow furrowed. “What?” he asked.

"We're going to Perros!" Christine squealed. She kicked Raya into a gallop, leaving Erik and his confusion in the dust.

Thank you thank you to Gnossiennes for this amazing art of themb!! 

Chapter Text

Christine heard Erik enter the stable behind her. She had already made short work of Raya’s saddle and was busy pulling the bridle from her horse’s sweaty neck.

"What's Perros?" he asked.

She grinned. "Only the greatest seaside village in France!"

She set the horse tack aside and opened the trunk of her belongings. She was still in her costume from the night before and was eager to be in more freeing garments.

“Alright…what’s so great about it?” Erik said, not unkindly, as she scavenged in the trunk for a clean shirt. She always kept something besides the tack and saddle soap, a clean pair of trousers or a fresh shirt for whenever practice went too long, or her clothes were ruined by a fall. She prayed she had had the forethought to refresh such clothes in this trunk; she shuddered to think what would happen if she had to go back to her tent and her father saw her like this.

“Well -” Dress off first, then shirt…would the resorts be open at this time of year? Would the beaches be crowded? The bodice scratched at the sensitive skin under her arms. One thing at a time, Christine.

She pulled at the ribbon, hastily re-tied this morning into a haphazard knot at the middle of her back. She gestured, her hands unable to reach the bow.

"Can you," she asked, peeking over her shoulder, and she saw Erik freeze. "Untie me?" she asked. Behind her, the soft crunch of leather boots on gravel told her of his approach; a tug on the laces - at first quick, and jerking, and fast; then slower, more methodical. He was, after all, a fast learner. The bodice relinquished its hold on her chest and she exhaled the nervous breath from her lungs.

"Perros is the closest thing I have to a hometown. We used to stay over in the winter when I was little," she said, voice distant at the memory, hands holding her heavy hair up off her neck as Erik unlaced her. Walking the cold beaches, playing hide-and-seek in the woods, huddling around the stove of the one-room schoolhouse she attended for only a few years before her education was ended, replaced by her father's lessons on the dirt road.

"Oh…" Erik said. His lack of excitement contrasted sharply with hers, and she yearned to fix it.

“Have you ever been to the sea, Erik?” Her voice ached with the thought of the salt air, the worn stones of the cliffside homes, the sea foam snapping and dissipating as the wind whipped against hard sand.

“Ah- no,” he replied, hands stilling at the eyelets of her bodice. Her heart broke.

"Imagine," she turned, bodice being held up only by her arm against her chest, and took a step closer to him. He held his breath. She had never noticed the effect she had on him, but now that she did, she felt a surge of confidence. She took another step closer. His hands hovered, unsure of what to do with the sudden intimacy. With her free hand, she took his, pressing it to her cheek.

He stared at her, dazed, for a moment before he remembered they were speaking. "You were saying," he said. She savored his sudden floundering for a moment before realizing she, too, was hypnotized. What were they talking about…

"The ocean," she remembered. "Lying on the beach, with no one to bother you. The waves...swimming out until you can't touch the bottom, and then challenging each other to go out farther." She could practically feel the salt air on her skin; after days on the road, it would be heaven by the sea. Erik's hand extricated itself from hers to tuck her hair behind her ear, and she craned up to smile at him. He finally smiled back, the uneasiness lessening considerably between them.

He leaned down and placed a kiss on her lips, softly, as if he was afraid to hurt her, or scare her away. She leaned upwards to meet him, smiling at the taste of him on her mouth. "I can't wait to show you Perros," she said. "It's my favorite place on earth."

He seemed to consider this, the weight of such a notion, and for a moment Christine worried she had gone too far, shared too much of herself too soon. Like a wild horse, he would spook soon and run off, harder to recapture the second time. She cast her eyes aside, anything to break the intensity between them. Slow steps, Christine, she warned. Then, she felt a hand on her cheek, a kiss from a person who met the intensity with intensity. Maybe she had been wrong. Maybe he understood her better than she had assumed.

She remembered the night before, the realizations and words left unsaid. Perhaps now they could speak plainly, before the chaos of the day–

Voices calling near the tent reminded Christine that she was standing half-undressed in last night's clothes with a man's fingers knotted in her hair and she broke away.

"Shoot!" she exclaimed, reaching for her shirt. Erik froze, not sure what to do.

The sound of her father's voice jogged Christine’s focus. "Stall him!" she pleaded as she pulled the shirt over her head, dress half-falling off on its own.

“What?” Erik hissed. “Christine–”

“Stall him, I don’t know, talk to him about – I don’t know, circus stuff?”

“Circus stuff?!” He had a hysterical edge to his voice, but she didn’t have time, needed to find the belt for her trousers.

“GO!”

Erik stared at her in abject confusion until her frantic shooing drove him out of the tent.

Christine could hear her father's voice more clearly as Erik greeted him. She yanked on her trousers over her shoes, trying to overhear the conversation outside the tent. Erik had seemed rather frazzled; could he manage a sentence around her father in this state?

"I'm looking for my daughter," she heard her father say as she fumbled with the laces of her trousers. Just a few more seconds – ah, her blasted silver boots! She dove back into the trunk for her spare leather pair. One...where was the other?

"Good morning, sir," Erik said, his voice smooth and persuasive. Christine paused, stunned. He was a performer all right. There – the other darn boot under the curry combs. She yanked it on. "I think she headed for the canteen," Erik was saying. "I was just heading that way myself.”

There was a deathly pause, then her father’s booming voice. “Oh, sure, sure. I think they may need more hands for the tent."

"Ah, I’m sure Firmin is already complaining,” Erik gave a…God, a jovial chuckle? Who was he, and what had he done to the real Erik? “Well, might as well get it over with." Footsteps receded from the tent flap, and Christine relaxed, leaning against the cool leather of the trunk.

She tied her boots, tied up the horses, and helped herself to the water pump. She was suddenly aware of how caked she was in the sweat and dirt of the last day's exertions.

Did she feel different? So much had happened. What she noticed was the absence of something: the looming questions over her head had changed, like a storm cloud dissipating to something less electric. Erik did feel something for her; she felt something for him. To clear that air was an enormous relief, replaced by a new and exciting feeling. New questions now arose: how, exactly, did he feel? Was she the only one who was excited to explore this? What would it be like to work with him, now? What else would they accomplish? She plaited her hair, a relief in the already sweltering heat. Perros, and its comforts, couldn't come soon enough.

A sharp yell from the camp interrupted her reverie.

"Help him!" Someone else shouted. Her father, distressed, called for a doctor. Christine broke out of the tent to see the men surrounding someone on the ground near the big tent. One of the enormous pine beams of the tent being struck lay crooked near the crowd. The strong man and several others were struggling to roll it out of the way.

"Give him room!" Her father’s voice – she scanned the crowd, searching, and saw him directing the crowd, his thick beard easy to spot among the onlookers. She took a breath – her father was ok, obviously, his eyes fierce and blazing as he forced people away from the scene. Accidents were not uncommon; half the staff was still drunk from the night before, and this work was risky as it was. She thought she would see Erik by his side — they had, after all just been talking – but the chaos obstructed her view.

The crowd shifted and she could see a familiar black-clad figure on the ground. She sprinted the remainder of the way, pushing onlookers aside to get to him.

“No!” she shouted, her heart plunging to her gut.

Erik lay on the ground, face clenched in agony, eyes shut tight, holding his shin. Already from where she stood she could see the bright red of his ankle stark amongst the gashes and splinters revealed by his torn pant leg.

“Get it off of him!” Piangi yelled, his arms bulging under the strain of trying to lift the offending pine beam of the big-top tent from Erik’s leg. “Help me, Gustave!”

Her father rushed to join the others who crowded around the screaming boy to lift the enormous log from his leg; Christine stood, powerless and ice-cold in the hot sun.

Finally, with a mighty heave from the men, the pine log lifted, the jagged wood stained red. The men eased it to Erik’s side, and Christine could see all too clearly the damage done to his ankle, flesh torn by the sheer force and weight of the falling timber.

“Erik!” She fell to her knees, not caring about the stains to her trousers, the cold mud soaking through the thin fabric. Her hands hovered over him, not knowing where to start, where to help. "You're all right," she said, parroting what her own father had said to her when she had once broken her own arm. He flinched from her touch for a moment before letting her smooth back his hair from his soaked forehead. She kept her eye off the leg. It was getting worse by the moment. "You're all right." She crooned. “We called the doctor.”

His eyes widened at this. “No –”

“Don’t worry, he’ll be here soon.”

“Christine,” he grabbed for her hands even as her father appeared, already reaching to pull her away as the crowd got thicker; pushier around the fallen man. “Please – no doctors –”

But her father had already hauled her away from him, was already speaking words of encouragement that they would take care of him, that they should leave.

“He said no doctors –”

“He’s barely conscious, Christine,” her father reminded her. “It was a terrible accident.”

An accident.

“These things happen,” Gustave Daae reasoned.

No. No they didn’t. Erik was in pain, and these things did not just happen.

She whirled from her father’s arms, facing the other workmen who had been hauling the beams of the tent. “Which one of you?!” She shrieked over the din of the crowd; the crowd did not respond, but people shifted. Those who had been hidden behind others were now more visible. Someone holding their hat in unsteady hands, for instance, could now be seen. Of course. Drunken bastard!

“Joseph Buquet,” she swore, pulling herself from her father’s grasp. “I will kill you myself!”

She launched herself through the bystanders, wrenching free from her father’s hands only to feel the steel grip of Piangi the strong man holding her back.

“It’s not worth it, love!” he exclaimed, wrangling her back through the crowd to her father. Behind him, Buquet disappeared among the onlookers.

She could hardly hear him for the anger in her head, eyes only on the retreating figure. Probably headed for more booze. “Bastard!” she called after him, her mind conjuring all the words her father disapproved of.

A sharp cry of pain from Erik was the only thing that turned her mind from her anger. Only when she relaxed her fight against Piangi did he soften his hold on her.

Erik writhed on the ground, fingers digging in the soft soil, tearing the grass up at the root in his agony.

She had seen those yellow eyes in rage, and arrogant indifference, and in softness, pleasure and joy. Never in physical pain. But the expression on Erik's face was vaguely familiar, and she struggled to remember where she had seen him suffer such agony before.

By the time the doctor arrived, the small crowd of circus performers had already gossiped their way to pronouncing him “as good as dead.” Her father’s sure hands found Christine’s shoulders and pulled her back, making way for the grey-haired local man with the apothecary bag.

“It’ll be all right, the doctor’s here,” her father said, his voice low and soft. The doctor had the same funny way of speaking that the locals did – adding a lilting questioning tone to statements.

“The ankle could be broken?” The doctor half-remarked, half-asked to the crowd. People murmured, making their own, horrible diagnoses to their friends.

Everything in Christine screamed at her to go to Erik, only her father’s arms holding her still. The doctor’s leather bag fell open; inside, a small handsaw with a rusted handle clattered against the other instruments.

“No,” she whispered; God, would they have to take off the foot? The whole leg? How could he possibly survive such a thing? Her head swam. Her father steadied her as she breathed the scent of his pipe tobacco and the faint smell of last night’s whiskey, willing herself not to faint.

"You usually don't mind blood," her father sounded surprised. "You don't have to stay if you don't want to, he’s in good hands."

He looked at her queerly, his brown eyes having that unsettling, paternal effect of piercing through to her soul. Her guilty conscience about the night before flared up; they didn’t have secrets, her father and her, and yet now she harbored one, buried deep beneath her ribs as she prayed for the boy on the ground.

Christine shook her head. No; she could not leave him now, not even if they were to use that horrible blade on his bleeding, torn flesh. She freed herself from her father’s grip, fell to the ground next to the doctor. "He's in pain," she choked. "Can't you do anything for the pain?"

"There's laudanum," the doctor commented at Erik's feet, touching the torn skin, the splintered wood of the beam stabbing through in places. He did not seem to feel the same urgency that Christine did.

“Give it to him!” she exclaimed.

Erik’s hand found hers. "No," he gasped. "I'm fine."

He gave a weak grimace, ending in a slow hiss as the doctor turned the ankle one way and the other. "Really," he tried again to put on a game face, failing miserably. Christine took another breath. Her father was right: usually blood didn't bother her, especially her own. Why was this other person's pain so unbearable to her? She kept her eyes on his face, as if staring at the creases in his pained face could alleviate some hurt.

She then remembered when she had seen him in pain before. The moment before she hit the ground, the night she fell. It was not apathy or malice in his eyes: he had hurt when she fell, felt her pain. The same immutable agony she had been unable to decipher was now clear as day reflected in his physical pain now.

He had cared. He had always cared.

The dozens of stares, including her father’s, no longer mattered; she pulled Erik into her lap in the damp meadow grass, smoothing the dark hair from his mottled forehead. Slick with terrified sweat; he accepted the gesture without protest, a testament to how thoroughly weakened he was.

She reminded him that the pain was fleeting; her featherlight touch brushing his furrowed brow.

“What?” she heard him murmur from her lap; her answer was lost when the doctor’s horrifyingly rusted tweezers dug into his skin to remove the most egregious of the splinters.

Sometime later, when the blood had dried and the screams had been slaked with whiskey, the pair were able to return to the stable, with considerable help from the stronger of the men in the camp.

"You're lucky it wasn't broken," Christine said, sucking on a maple candy. Erik sat on the ground of the stable tent, leaning against the leather trunk, his leg bandaged and elevated on a stool. "Candy?" she offered.

He shook his head. "You know, I think your father intended those for me," he commented.

Christine popped another into her mouth, shrugging. "And I offered you one, didn't I?" She had also sampled some of the liquor provided to Erik by a very sorry Buquet, who had another worker deliver it with his apologies for fear of facing the wrath of Christine Daae.

Erik laughed. "And people say I'm scary. You were positively fearsome."

Christine blushed and handed him his hard-earned whiskey. He had been clear: no morphine or laudanum, but when the bandages were wrapped he had to compromise and agree that liquor could help dull the pain.

"I'm not sure it was even Buquet’s fault," he attempted, twirling the cork in his index finger and thumb. "It could have been any of us, weakening for a moment. I just happened to be the unlucky one under the beam."

Christine paced away from him. She wasn't so forgiving to the man who had caused Erik such pain. She hoped he would make himself scarce when they set off the next day. With all the commotion, Firmin decided to delay their travel – a chance for some to sober up for the rest of the day’s packing.

Christine took a breath before pivoting on her toes to pace back toward the invalid in her care. She couldn’t shake her realization from earlier, the depth of his feeling for her the night she fell, nor the sense that something was very much different between them since last evening. The words that she did not have the time to say that morning still weighed on her mind; and, well, now she had a captive audience. He could not so easily flee her if she pushed too hard.

"Erik," she began, arms folded.

"Mm?" he said. Though it had not come to them completely full, between them half the bottle of whiskey was gone. He had gone a bit tilty where he leaned against the trunk, a lopsided half-grimace on his masked face. He frowned at his bandaged leg.

She shifted to her other foot. "Why did you..." she began, suddenly less sure of her question. Did she want to know the answer, if it went wrong? She stilled.

He stared up at her. "Why did I..." he prompted, smiling wryly. He was tipsy. That knowledge encouraged her somewhat.

“Why did you…” she lost her nerve. “Why did you say no doctors?”

“What?”

“Back there…you seemed really scared.”

“Oh.” He looked at his lap.

The leather mask had returned to his face that morning; she had the impulse to tear it from him, to see his true feelings. She held her hands fast behind her back instead.

He wet his lips. “I…haven’t always had good luck with doctors.”

Lighter on the gifted whiskey, Christine considered the weight of the words. The past of a boy who slept in a mask and refused laudanum. It was a path she did not want to explore, not now, not when he was safe, and his leg was not broken, and he would be ok.

"When I saw you, there...I felt –" she toed the ground with her boot, shifting the hay coating the dirt floor. She couldn't bear to look at him. "I didn't realize – how it would feel to see you like that –”

She could feel his eyes on her. She tried again. “It was so horrible, knowing you were in pain."

She had half a mind to walk out of the tent and never return, to avoid the conversation and its accompanying vulnerability. She finally looked up to see him staring at her with total confusion. For some reason, it made her laugh.

"I sound crazy," she grinned at the ridiculousness of it all. How long ago had she stuck the muzzle of her gun into his shoulder blades? Now she was threatening death on anyone daring to touch a hair on his skeletal head. "I care about you very much, Erik."

He watched her with his peculiar yellow eyes, shadowed by the mask. She ducked her eyes down to the floor, found a piece of straw, peeled it apart until it was shreds. Still, he stared.

She laughed. “Say something,” she said. Please.

She had spooked him. Perhaps she could dive into the sea when they arrived in Perros and never surface.

Panic bubbled to the surface. Could she handle his refusal of her feelings, however minor? The gnawing in her chest whispered no.

"I don't –" he looked down. "I mean, I'm not –"

"That's fine –" she stammered back. Suddenly, the heat of the tent was stifling; the heat of his eyes even moreso. She needed to walk. Her ankle was stilled by a skeletal hand wrapping it in a vise grip as she passed him.

"Christine," he said sharply. "Please –"

"No, it's fine." She didn't want to hear an explanation. "I understand."

"You don't." He refused to let go, though she pulled against his arm. Had he always been this strong? His yellow eyes were pleading, wide. "Christine, I love you," he said.

Her mind went perfectly and completely blank. The hot air scraped her throat and she fought to catch her breath enough to say, simply: "Oh.”

He released her ankle, covering his face with his hands. "You can go, if you wish," he said behind his palms. She remained where she stood.

Slowly, she lowered to the dirt next to him, kneeling tall so she could be at eye level. She reached for his hands and he let her peel them from his face and she kissed the knuckles of each hand before placing them on his lap. She leaned forward and kissed him. He looked back at her, perplexed.

"Well then," she smiled. What could it hurt? "I love you too."

"I think your father is glaring at me," Christine felt his voice in her ear and his arms at her waist - lower on her hips than absolutely necessary to stay in the saddle, she might add. With his injured ankle and every other horse in use, Christine had been eager to volunteer the back of her saddle to him, if not to laugh at the indignity of it all. Surely, the way he moved his hips against her backside at every bump and divot in the road was a little exaggerated, and she hid her smirk from her father’s baleful glare.

“I think so too,” Christine giggled, leaning back against him for good measure. The circus wagon train twisted long in front and behind them creeping along in the sweltering sun to Perros. It was agony; she could no longer taste the waves on her tongue; the dust from the road choked her.

Behind her, Erik made a noise of complaint.

A wicked idea came to her. “Should we run?”

“What?”

“Let’s run.”

“Christine –” He protested, but she could smell the salt air and knew her horse’s potential speed and that knowledge was too tempting to not indulge. She turned back to his downturned mouth.

“Hold on tight!”

Chapter Text

Erik had always had a good memory; it was his gift and his burden, to remember a melody perfectly hearing it only once, to see a face in a crowd and commit it in his mind for all time. To remember the sting of his mother's hand on his scarred cheek, brought to bear in anger, or the burning sensation of a match as keenly as the day he pinched it between his fingers and watched it ignite a canvas tent.

It also meant he could recall, with perfect accuracy, the susurrus of the high meadow grass across his callused fingertips, the wide smile of a girl turning to meet the sight of his face with joy, the warmth of her hand against his palm as she reached for his. The certainty of their intertwined fingers was long gone, but if he concentrated he could still recall how it felt, the way his heart thumped an unsteady beat against his bones.

He recalled one of his favorite memories now, in the dark loneliness of the tent; out of reward or masochism, he could not say. It was new – fresh. If he closed his eyes, he could smell the salt on the air, hear the grass on the dunes rushing in the wind. Feel the heavy thud of hooves against packed sand, the rhythm of their two bodies astride the horse.

“This is Perros!” she had exclaimed from her seat on Raya’s back, her freckled arms outstretched, her face upturned to the sun.

Perros indeed.

It had been a week since they had arrived. The night had grown cooler; unseasonably so, and he tossed down the errant sketchbook he had been aimlessly doodling in. She was not here, of course, in the stable with him. She had not been here for days. He should water the horses and go to sleep. No good decisions were made so late at night.

His memory had other plans as he brushed the horses, trying to expunge her incessant presence from his brain through the fierce strokes of the curry comb. To no avail; he could still taste her sun-chapped lips on his tongue, see the way her hair clung to her face in the sea –

The stretch of beach had been long and empty; this was a secret beach, not the one for tourists with their garish umbrellas. They were fully alone, the circus caravan still ambling miles behind them. She had kicked her horse Raya into a full gallop, and now at the beach she gave no sign of slowing. Erik pulled at her waist, suddenly worried he would plummet off the horse. Christine leaned back into his chest, another triumphant laugh in her throat. She was wild, with no one to tell her to slow, that it wasn't proper.

She crashed the grey mare into the sea, the horse snorting at the cold water. Christine urged her forward until water hit Erik's shoes. He gasped, and she gave a giggle.

"Horses can swim, you know," she reminded him. Raya was picking her head up, the horse not seeming too keen to dive.

Erik laughed. "Yes, but how do you know I can?"

Christine started. "Can you?"

His eyes widened and he let himself slide sideways off the horse, into the shallow water. He held his breath, forcing his body to the bottom. Without his mask, water rushed unimpeded against his poor excuse for a nose. But, he could keep the water at bay long enough. He waited.

He felt her hands on his wrists, urging him upward.

"Erik!" she called. "Oh, are you alright?"

He could only keep his face stoic for a moment before he gave a grimacing smile.

Christine gasped, smacking his arm. "Oh, you're terrible!" Her hair was soaked, the curls stuck to her head, her shirt clinging to her skin. "I thought you were drowning!"

"I can swim," he said. "It seems Raya doesn't want to though." He nodded at the horse, already turned around and heading for shore, her tack laden with water. The mare shook off and found an enticing patch of shade beneath the cliffs.

"So this is Perros?" he asked, looking up at the cloudless sky.

She smiled, treading water.

"This is it!"

Erik's long legs could touch the sandy bottom of the water, and so he stepped over to her, desperate to close the gap between them. He found that his ankle did not ache so badly in the water; he was able to put some weight on it in the cool sea. Meanwhile, her feet did not reach the bottom, but she could wrap her legs around him, using him as a mooring.

He was still not used to her touching him, though he had allowed her to touch every part of him only the night before. He held his breath, stiffening away from her. She paused. She was learning his idiosyncrasies quickly.

She reached for his hand, which he willingly gave; though he was sensitive to her touch, he would die without it now that he had felt it once before. She brought his wrist up to her lips and kissed the thin skin, the blue veins pulsing an uneven rhythm beneath it. Her eyes flashed to his for a moment, monitoring his reaction. He let out his breath.

Without breaking contact, she slid her hand up to his shoulder, eyes watching. He sucked in a breath. This woman would undo him.

With her other hand, she slowly cupped his dripping, mangled cheek. He let his eyes close; he relished this touch most of all. On some merciful instinct, his hand found her waist under the ocean waves. He pulled her to him as her lips found his.

It was funny what the heart remembers, rather than the head. Erik's memory was so precise, so accurate, yet his heart chose to focus on the joy in the brown eyes that looked back at his uncovered face, and the feeling of the blissfully cool water.

It certainly did not want to remember the doubt racing through his mind. The panic; the sense this could not last.

Nor, in this memory of events, did he choose to recall that red silk scarf catching the wind above them, threatening to land.

But it was certainly there, a blot on the cloudless day. He saw it first, glaring against the sky. He didn't move; it was none of his concern. A few people had gathered at the end of the beach, the narrow strip of sand below the cliff face. He eyed them with concern, as he did most people. Would they bother them? Would they be a threat? No, but they seemed rich. The woman held a parasol, the men stood in white linens. There were only three of them. Erik could take more, if tested. He waded further into the water, trying to enjoy the sensation of Christine's hand on his forearm, using him for balance in the water.

She saw them now, and she craned her neck to look. "Who do we think they are," she scowled. They were walking, one running, down towards where Raya waited on the dunes. Her hand left Erik and his heart yearned for it back, but the moment was ended, their peace broken.

"Hey!" The nearest one to the shore called to them, and Erik turned away. A new fear struck in his heart: that these young men would mock him. He had long grown a thick skin, but to be mocked in front of Christine, he found, would be a new and exquisite torture. His stomach sank and he purposely peered at the horizon line, ignoring the cries.

"My scarf!" the voice yelled. Erik turned at the splash - Christine had plunged head-first into the waves. He watched her come up for air once, twice, his heart sinking as she swam with considerable urgency toward the group. They would have to interact with them, then.

The scarf danced just above the cresting waves before hitting the surface. Christine snatched at it, pulling it under the water with her.

"Got it!" she called out, holding the soaking scarf over her head like a trophy. She was yards from Erik, closer to shore. Erik made no move to come to shore with her.

Instead, he watched as she exited the waves in her shirt and trousers, curls stuck to her head, toward the young man in the white linen suit. He was a bit taller than his companion and broad-shouldered. His friends still were a ways away from them, making their way at a leisurely pace along the packed sand of the shore. Erik moved a few feet closer, still swimming low in the water, hopefully less visible to those on the shore.

She handed the soaking scarf to him. He took it with two fingers, pinching the soaked item far away from his impeccable suit. They stood for a moment, Christine's arms crossed. Good. Soon they would be on their way.

Then, Erik watched in abject horror as Christine threw her hands around the man's neck. Her squeal hit his ears from where he tread water. Who was this person? How dare he – He ground his teeth. No, he could not emerge, soaked to the skin as he was, all bones and mistakes.

She would later laugh when he, wounded, asked who he was. Raoul de Chagny, of course. A childhood friend – what a miracle they were both here at the same time! Yes, wonderful.

This new, insolent presence in Christine’s life was only the beginning of Erik’s terrible week: Gustave insisted that the Daae’s stay in town with friends rather than sleep under the stars with the remainder of the camp. Andre had allowed it; since this was their home, he was willing to bend the rules for such a loyal member of the circus. The horses - well, wasn’t Erik the hired help? The coins pressed into his palm by Gustave weighed heavy in his pocket. The help. Of course. He had almost forgotten; not entirely, but when Christine had matching stains on her trousers to his, and the same dirt on her glistening face after a long day, he could almost forget.

But she hadn’t been hauling water, or mucking the paddock, or even splitting an orange at breakfast with him for some time. And so he waited, hope dwindling like the oil in the lamp illuminating the horses.

He awoke the next morning; sleep and dust crusting over his paper-thin, jagged cheek that he pressed to the dirt instinctively. The horses stirred with him, his ever-present shadows in this purgatory between waiting for Christine and giving up. He swatted the flies, his burdensome wage a heavy reminder in his pocket, and got to work.

Only at lunch did he see another soul on two legs. Marguerite found him in the shade cast by the big top, where he hid from the worst of the midday heat. At that time it was too hot to eat, too hot to think. When she extended an apple, stored in the shaded barrels on the outskirts of the camp, Erik wordlessly accepted it. He had some respect for the bearded lady; all freaks did, for each other, to some degree. But she was, for lack of a better term, Gustave Daae’s man through and through, and Gustave Daae did not care for Erik, that much he could discern. So there was some surprise when she had something else for the boy sitting under the tree.

“A note,” she said. There was an odd smile on her lips. “I was instructed to give you this.”

He saw the handwriting, swirling and rushed. Christine. He snatched it up and tore into it, the apple forgotten on the ground for the true sustenance.

But Marguerite lingered.

“What?” he snapped. Did she intend to read it herself? He scowled.

The smile had not left her lips. “I was…instructed to give you this in no uncertain terms. Quite strong terms, actually.” She laughed. From her ample bodice, she retrieved a charcoal pencil. “She – er, demanded I send proof you received it, and no one else.”

The image of the tiny girl threatening Marguerite on pain of death would sustain him for some days ahead. He nodded; he scribbled his name in his usual chicken scratch. His name? What else would he write? Words failed him with Christine…words did not encapsulate his feelings correctly. It was all wrong…”Love?” should he write love? “I miss you?” Surely he would rather lay down in the dirt here and die than grovel at her feet. His hand hovered over the envelope.

In a few tiny strokes, Raya appeared, her tiny mane tossing in the air in her haughty manner, her feet aloft as if playing in the paddock. Yes. That ought to do it. He shoved the pencil and the envelope back to Marguerite, who seemed amused by his attitude rather than put off by it. Only when she retreated back to the main grounds did he unfold the letter and read.

Dear Erik,

Dear? Was he a “Dear Erik?” What did that mean? Was it just the formality of the salutation, was this a usual thing for friends to write, was he more than that, was this more than that?

Oh, I wish you were here.

But he was here. He was! Just over the hill, Christine, not that you would know…He frowned and continued on.

Father has so many friends here who remember me from when I was no taller than a piano stool. The de Chagny’s, by the way, have THREE pianos in their house, one just for “appearances,” – can you believe that? They have been so nice to us, we have dinner at a different house every night. It’s really exhausting, to tell you the truth, but Papa has never been more excited and happy. Even his music is more cheerful here. I guess it’s true that the sea is good for your health.

I didn’t think anyone would remember me, or surely they would be startled at the person I have become since we were last here, but everyone has been so welcoming. There’s always something to do, or someone to call on, or a shop to visit, and I truly don’t think I’ve eaten or drunk so much in my life as I have this week. You won’t recognize me when you see me!

Raoul’s family is hosting a party at the hotel on the cliffs, a celebration they insist has nothing to do with our return to Perros. I have a feeling he’s lying – Raoul’s a terrible liar, and a cheat at poker. I have to try to see if someone won’t play piquet with me, so I can use your little trick and win some of my money back.

I know you’re busy, with the horses – send them my love, don’t give Cesar any treats, he still is punished for that bite on my leg – but if you were free, and wanted to –

This bit was scratched out, but he could still make out the words: “join me” “come with me, please” “you have to be there” until she settled on:

Accompany me to the dance, I would –

Another cross out, this one unintelligible.

You have to! Dance with me, Erik.

Christine

He blinked at the letter. It was, no doubt, her hand. There were, of course, moments it was undoubtedly his Christine who wrote it, and yet –

“Accompany?”

Dancing? Grand parties? Shopping? Social visits? The Christine he knew never thought of such things; only the open sky and a sturdy horse under her, far from the confines of her father’s demands and expectations. And now…

He balled the letter into his fist, ink staining his sweating palm in this heat. He stared at the crumpled paper, wishing it gone; with it the words that now troubled his mind. He would pore over them as he worked that afternoon hauling water; would reread it twice more as he oiled the tack, and considered taking Cesar and never returning as he second-guessed the punctuation in the second paragraph at nightfall.

He would not, of course, go to the dance. Surely she knew that, surely she only said it out of some…what, pity? She would deny it but it was there, plain as day, in her words. It was a joke to her, and he the punchline. How could he have been so stupid?

He brought the horses in, venting his day’s frustrations with the vigor with which he bossed Cesar back into the stable. The horse gave an indignant snort; he gave a few choice words back to the beast as he slapped his enormous neck.

“Just two curmudgeonly old cranks,” he heard a voice say.

He walked beside the horse into the tent to the voice, the voice that had been nagging his dreams for the last week, had been torturing him all day through letters.

“Hello, Cesar, you old brute,” she crooned at the stallion towering over her. “Miss me?”

She turned from the horse to Erik. Christine stood in the warm glow of the lantern. She smiled, and the doubt in his mind dissipated, as did many of his more coherent thoughts. She was very buttoned up: silk gathered at her slender neck, pale pink gown cinched at her waist, yards of fabric pooling behind her, bows and lace in mauve and ivory, colors he had only read in books, never seen in real life. Her skin was flushed, as though she had just come from a ride, but her hair had been wrangled and subdued into some sort of pinned-up style. Pearls peeked out from dark curls; there must have been dozens, constellations in the galaxy; her upturned face the sun. It was at once jarring and intoxicating; Erik had seen her without any clothes at all, but somehow seeing her in damask silks with her hair pinned with a salary’s worth of jewels was more indecent. She looked very much the image of a proper lady, and fear gripped Erik’s chest.

She was always beautiful; had always been, to him. He did not fear the creature in front of him, done up and proper. It was just that, when she wore a man’s old shirt and riding pants, covered in layers of dirt, there was a chance he could imagine someone who looked like her could be with someone like him. When she was clean, scrubbed fresh and shining like a new coin in proper ladies' clothes...well, that was another story. He bristled.

"I put the horses away," he said, harsher than he meant it.

"Oh," she said, peering past him into the tent. "Thank you."

"How was town?" he sneered.

Despite his tone, her eyes still glittered with enthusiasm. This Christine glittered, now, he supposed. "Oh, wonderful. There are so many old friends, and father's been like he used to be. Something about Perros brings out the best in people, I guess."

"I guess," Erik said, voice flat. "I'm glad you're having a good time."

She put a hand on his wrist, and it was like she had never touched him before. The feel of her skin burned him to his bones. "Come with me.”

He stared at her for a moment, his stoic figure casting a long shadow over her. He turned and limped away, his ankle still aching enough to demand a dram of whiskey before bed.

He should have guessed she would follow him; he begrudgingly loved her stubbornness. Tonight, though, he felt its burden. He knelt by the trunk that held the horse's tack and most of his stolen goods, his magic tricks and mementos taken from Andre's trailer, and found the half-bottle of whiskey. He pulled out the stopper and drank directly from the bottle, wincing at the burn.

"Erik, come to the dance with me," she said, voice innocent. Naive. It almost broke his heart to give her the news. Almost.

He barked a sharp, sarcastic laugh. "I don't dance."

Christine was nonplussed. "You danced with me, once, so I know that's nonsense. Come to the dance!"

"Christine." He was growing irritable. "I can barely walk, let alone dance." He gestured to his leg.

She paused, mulling this point over. She seemed to become more and more disappointed, her face falling. "But- it won't be any fun without you."

Erik winced. He was burdened with the fact that, even if his ankle was fine, even if he wasn't in pain, he would never be able to go to a dance, would never show his horrible face at a crowded ball. He still remembered the screams on the streets of Rouen, his mother hiding him away. No, the townsfolk were not supposed to dance alongside Frankenstein's monster. It didn't end well for the Creature.

Instead of explaining all that, he gave a weary sigh and settled down on the saddle blankets over hay.

"Goodnight, Christine." He hated the way he felt, hated the burning, stupid little hope in his chest that she would stay tonight, that she would hold him and make it all go away with her blissful touch. Hated the voice in his head that said "stay, please."

He wanted to ask her to stay. But such a clean, splendid thing shouldn't sleep in the stable like an animal. So he said nothing.

He waited for her anger, as familiar as a caress to him; the more firm footing from the old days. He would be able to meet that anger with his own; he almost looked forward to the comfort of an old-fashioned Christine-argument. Something to take the burn out of his chest.

He had not prepared for tears.

His mother cried often; she was, after all, burdened with him for a son. But his response from an early age, after those first failed attempts to comfort her, was to hide; after the tears always came rage, sometimes simultaneously. He bit down on his tongue and fought the urge to run as fast as the tears pricked at the edges of her eyes.

Christine was not his mother; he was not the little boy in the armoire. So he spoke.

“Are you alright?" he asked. He rose to his feet.

"No. Well – yes, just a little nervous," she gave a little laugh and sniffled. "I – er – I told my father I would just get some air, and then getting some air led me up the hill, and before I knew it I was here." She blushed.

Erik was suddenly aware of how dusty his clothes were. He feared to reach out and touch the angel in front of him; his stomach twisted at his own hesitation. This wasn't him; this wasn't her, wasn’t them. The sudden shift made his head swim, and he looked away from the lace trimming her skirts.

She was fiddling at the reticule dangling from her wrist. "Just think, I can somersault on a horse at a full gallop in front of a hundred people, and I have stage fright about some little dance." She turned, eyes wide and pleading.

Erik paused. He knew she was looking for solace; the words failed him. She was letting Cesar nuzzle her hand, brow furrowed.

He had known the cruelty of prying eyes since birth; he couldn’t imagine feeling that way, looking as beautiful as Christine in all her finery. But people were cruel, and he wanted to protect her from harm, to arm her against the daggers in men’s smiles. But he would not go with her to that bustling dance hall, could not, would only make things worse. If only there was a way, without his presence–

"Oh," he realized. Without answering her questioning glance, he reached inside the enormous leather trunk.

"I'm not sure magic will help–" she began, seeing where his hands were headed. But he pushed all his alchemy books and gadgets aside to find the bottom of the trunk.

"Oh," she breathed.

He handed her the parcel with the care of an archeologist uncovering a precious artifact.

Her face was inscrutable as she accepted the packet; her hands hesitant. From the wrappings he watched her remove a miniature pair of stark white kid gloves embroidered with lilies on the wrist. Seed pearls glistened up at them with a glint as though they were just purchased; only the worn yellow paper they sat in suggested their true origin and age.

He wondered if she would understand. If she would look at the old paper and that embossed trunk and realize that the only way women’s gloves would be in his trunk would be if these belonged to his mother.

She covered her mouth with her free hand; he did not entirely trust she would not drop the gloves in the dirt, her hands shook so badly. He watched them shake – noticed where the wet leather polish from Cesar’s bridle left a mark on clean skin.

She suddenly thrust them back at him as though they stung her.

"What are you–?"

"I can't ruin your mother's gloves, Erik," she apologized, still staring at them warily. "I'm no fine lady." She gestured at the stain.

Erik held his breath, bewildered by her insecurity. He put down the gloves on the trunk and bent to reach for a clean cloth. He took a few hesitant steps towards her, trying to limit the degree to which he limped: it wasn't about him or his pain now, he needed to alleviate hers. He took her hand in his, callus meeting soft fingertips, and in a few careful strokes cleaned her hands, wiped the polish from her wrist until only its shadow remained.

Her eyes were wide on her hand in his. It had only been a week since they swam together in the ocean, legs wrapped around each other, but some chasm had opened between them with the time apart, with her new skirts and fancy hairstyles, her new friends and social engagements. He bit his thin lip in between his crooked teeth to keep from asking her to stay, to change back into her old self, to go for a ride in the moonlight, to go back to a Christine he could see as his.

No, she deserved a life better than this.

Perhaps this was what Gustave Daae had always planned when they arrived in Perros. Maybe her father had, too, realized that Christine was beautiful, young, vibrant; an exceptional trio for a performer, even more valuable in order to secure a wealthy and well-connected beau. Yes, all these new outfits seemed serendipitous indeed. And Erik could not interfere. Would not. He could not ruin another life.

"You, Christine Daae," he breathed, "are the finest lady I've ever seen." He forced himself to let go of her hand, and he saw her face fall. Better a disappointment than a broken heart; she would recover. He handed her the gloves again.

"You deserve these more than their previous owner.” His voice broke. Her hands shook when she accepted the gloves, putting them on with a gentle hand, Cinderella placing her foot in a glass slipper.

They fit perfectly, as he'd guessed. A curl had fallen from her chignon and he plucked the offending lock from her neck and tucked it back with ghostly hands, barely touching her. He was not worthy to touch her. Not like this.

She frowned at the gesture but did not protest. She seemed to be waiting for something. What, he did not know.

"Enjoy the dance," he said. He allowed himself one last look before turning away, busying himself with the curry combs.

She stared at him a long while, as though she had forgotten how her body worked, shrouded in her finery. Forgotten she had a decision to make, to leave or stay, to say something that could fix all this, to throw words at him that could hurt or heal. Her glare on his rigid back burned through his clothes and into what passed for his soul and he prayed she would wound him, anything to finish this whole sordid matter. But she didn't. Instead, she hissed a curt "Goodnight, Erik." Only the sound of the crickets outside the tent and the soft slap of canvas told him she had left, and he was once again alone.

So be it. Let it be war.

Chapter Text

An hour. That was how long he lasted in his self-made purgatory before he found himself at the top of the hill overlooking the city. His ankle burned from the climb, the skin beneath his trouser leg still an incessant and horrifying blue-black from the accident. After years of freak show living, he thought he was beyond any vanity; his frustration at the discoloration reminded him that even he was not above such thoughts. Insult to further injury, he guessed.

It seemed so long ago now that Christine was nursing him back to health with stories from her days in the circus, of her father accidentally releasing a trained bear into the camp proper one night; her short-lived prank war with the trapeze girls that ended with Raya’s mane dyed beet red and several leotards lost to the tree-tops. Only a few days ago she was passing him the whiskey as they lay in the tall meadowgrass and watched the insects circle above them, no one looking for them for a blessed hour until the camp set off for Perros.

The moonlight cast his long shadow down across the hill high above the cliffside town. They had arrived, alright. And suddenly whispered promises in the dwindling lantern-light meant nothing and she was in the arms of who knew.

He pulled at the string of his worn shirt. Sure enough, below the lanterns glittered around the hotel. Young people's laughter echoed up to him, a sound he would only hear from a distance, would never hear in person, would never be the cause of such laughter from a well-timed joke or witty observation.

The guests arrived in pony carts and carriages, many already dancing in the gilded ballroom. Music from fiddles and flutes floated up, a distorted version of the reels Christine would be dancing to, the partner waltzes she would enjoy. He wondered if Gustave was playing, or if he was home, secure in the knowledge that Christine was safe on the path he had planned for her, a life far from the dangers of the circus, far from the monster who loved her.

He felt a wave of anger towards the man, then it cooled. At one time, he would have confronted him, would have waited until he was asleep to ambush him with terror, interrogating his decision to take so much time from performing to bring his daughter to her hometown. But there was nothing to ask, nothing to examine; seeing Christine in her beautiful dress speaking of her childhood friends with advantageous connections had clarified everything. He sighed.

As he stood there, the stars wheeling unseen above him as he lingered, stewing over the hand some vengeful god had dealt him, his eyes grew heavier and heavier, the lights of the ballroom below blurring in and out. It was well past midnight, the music had begun to slow. Far below, tiny dots of people were filing out, buzzed on the energy of the night and champagne. He didn’t know what he was looking for: Christine, perhaps, but what would he do if he did see her familiar form down below? Run down there, ruin her night with this blasted face, his temper, drag her like some monster of old and beg her to come back to the circus in her silk dresses and fine gloves?

He heard her first, a warbled version of her laugh on the wind, swirling up to him on the breeze. Her big, barking laugh, the one you really had to earn, the one reserved for only the quickest joke or the silliest horse behavior. His resolve evaporated and his eyes darted down to the tiny torches illuminating the outside of the hotel. Sure enough, dark curls and pink silk bounded out, a sharp contrast with the elegant people drifting around her, she a comet disturbing their orbits with her fire. Erik leaned forward, as though those few inches would allow his eyes to see who, exactly, the towheaded man next to her was. He nearly toppled over to see past the fast-approaching carriage that pulled up at the entrance, momentarily blocking his view of the pair.

It was Raoul, the boy from the beach she spoke so highly of. He cursed him silently and started down the hill to see them better. He had barely moved before he saw the boy lift Christine as though she was already his bride, carried across the threshold and into their marriage bed. He placed her into the carriage, which sped off without delay, leaving Erik’s fingernails cutting into his palms. He would soon draw blood; he did not care.

She had changed. He had known it from the letter, but he hadn’t realized how quickly she would give up all of her individuality. The dirt-covered daredevil he loved was gone; a porcelain doll who laughed easily around the highest bidder had replaced her.

It was harsh, but he didn’t care; inaccurate, but he no longer noticed. He shoved off from the hilltop and stalked toward the encampment.

The heavens opened in a deluge. Raindrops fell heavy on his scars, as if tapping him on the shoulder to remind him of his faults. The water did not impede him as he stormed through the flaps of the tent, startling the horses. He threw open the leather trunk with a deafening bang that had Cesar rearing; he did not pause to calm him. Maybe the stallion would even break free; would serve her right, to lose a horse or two.

He would run away. He would leave this behind, leave her. Perhaps when she found him gone, she would feel regret, remorse, would realize her mistake. He would not be treated like this; in all his years of self-hatred, he still had that scrap of self-worth. He was no one’s fool.

Another horse shrieked as he shoved clothes and his meager belongings into his rucksack; he did not stop. The shrieking continued, even when he slammed the trunk closed, scaring the horses into submission.

Yes, he would leave, he would never see this stupid circus and their stupid show rider –

There was a horse on its side – past Cesar and the others, a bay breathed hard in the straw. Calpurnia.

The horses occasionally slept standing – a few occasionally preferred to lay down, but he had never seen a horse lie like that, flat on her side, as though her legs no longer could hold her. Her eyes were wild, and her snorts sounded pained. He squinted at her, pausing a moment before he continued to pack.

These weren't even his horses, he didn't really care if they –

The horse whinnied, high and sharp. He could see the white of her enormous, scared eye.

No, he didn't really care if they died. After all, he was already dead.

He stormed out of the tent into the tempest. Wind tore at his clothes, rain soaking him to the bone instantly. The trees groaned, the gusts threatening their stability, clawing at their ancient trunks. The only beacons were a few lanterns scattered throughout the encampment swinging on their posts, the stars and moon completely obscured by heavy storm clouds. He gritted his teeth and spit the water trying to collect in his open mouth. Behind him, Cal's whinnies cut through the cacophony of thunder as he marched through the campground to the wooded path, which he would follow until he put enough distance between himself and Christine.

The old-growth forest quickly swallowed him whole, absorbing some of the torrential rain above his head. If he glanced behind, the circus was just a faint glow already absorbed by the black wood. He wasn’t looking behind, really, he just wanted to be sure he wasn’t being followed. Not like she even knew, not like anyone knew he had left. Anyway, looking back would imply remorse, and he –

Thunder cracked above him. In an instant, every tree, leaf, every rock on the path behind him was illuminated in alarming detail.

Then, everything went blinding white. Next to him, an immense groan. The wind of something whizzing past, an explosive crack. He stopped breathing.

A thick oak crashed inches before him, blocking the path ahead, its jagged, smoking wood bright white against the darkness.

A foot closer and he would have been dead.

A hysterical breath bubbled up in his throat and he heard himself laughing. It came quickly and without control and he hiccupped and laughed, doubling over.

Then the laughter turned to crying, and he bent over the tree trunk, unable to stand.

He could go around the obstacle, but he felt his adrenaline waning, could taste the weariness beneath. Behind him, a scream; uncannily inhuman.

Calpurnia.

Shit.

He did care about the little sorrel mare. She was the outcast of the group, the runt, splayed out in agony in the tent behind him, helpless and alone.

He turned and ran back to the stable in the mud and rain, his bones icy by the time he returned. The horse was still down, vainly biting at her side as though trying to exorcize whatever ailed her.

He considered running to town, to find Christine. But he already knew she wouldn't be in her own bed, and he couldn't bear to think what he would see if he managed to find her.

He focused his encyclopedic brain, considered the research he had done. Horse lying down. Labored breathing. Biting at her side. He checked the horse's pulse, ignoring her startled expression at the man looming over her.

Yes, this wet skeleton is going to save you, he thought to himself.

She was colicky, and needed to stand. He pushed at her hip, to her chagrin. She refused.

No... colic was bad, and could be fatal, he recalled from the books. All those books, read in the lantern light of his freak show cage, reading as though studying for an exam; in reality, studying for a chance to even measure up in some small way to Christine’s passion for her horses. He could not gain more experience, but he was always a fast reader, and in those early days he had thought that perhaps he could memorize his way into Christine’s heart. But those days were now past him, and he had failed, and all he had to show for it was a stupid amount of knowledge about horse anatomy, read in French and German and Dutch, filling his brain with facts and charts that now he strove to remember.

In his mind's eye he scrolled his eye down the page to treatments. Laudanum...he wondered who in the circus would have any. If so, there was little chance that they would want to part with it–knowingly– for something as trivial as a horse. Asafetida...he had no clue where to begin finding that. He couldn't venture to town at this hour, not without breaking into an apothecary. By then, it could be too late…Think, Erik…

He could see his distressed, horrible face in the reflection of Calpurnia’s enormous pupils. Was this what Christine saw? A burning man reduced to ash by a single rejection. Pathetic.

Ash….

There was a story in one of the medical textbooks – ash, charcoal… coals and salt, yes, that was – something to treat whatever was bothering her stomach.

He launched himself back into the rain, his feet sliding in his soaked leather boots, his shirt clinging to ice-cold skin. He must have cut a distinctly macabre figure, hair in strings dripping around his death’s head skull, digging frozen fingers into the still-warm embers of the communal campfire, snatching handfuls of coal like a grim reaper of souls collecting his bounty. Rain water collected in his gnashing mouth, tasting of earth and bitterness as he stumbled back to his feet, no longer able to see in the deluge. Only muscle memory got him back to the stable unharmed, blackened through with soot and ash.

He was not so far gone to madness that he could not recognize the irony of a man built of death trying, vainly, to spark life back into a faltering creature; he only hoped he could prove such an irony wrong by healing her. He spit rainwater from his mouth and knelt by the heaving chest of the prostrate animal.

He ground the coal into a paste, mixed it with lukewarm water and salt, and coaxed the horse to sit up to drink. When she refused, he felt his confidence slip. He did not have another plan.

"Please," he begged. The horse did not seem to recognize the bucket of soot-filled water as drinkable. He tried again, trying to tip the water towards her panting mouth, only to have her throw her enormous head away, nearly toppling the whole mixture into the hay.

"Fine," he snapped, sitting back on his heels and shoving the sodden hair away from his eyes. Mere inches from him, the other horses’ legs quivered in sleep. One, behind him, shifted in the sanctuary of the stable. The glow of the lantern cast a long shadow over the tawny horse who breathed heavy in the hay, sweating and exhausted. "Suit yourself."

He was losing his mind, talking to a horse. A horse that would die before morning. A stubborn, insolent – he turned his face away, guilt tinging his frustration.

He turned down the lantern, but stayed near the sick horse. He swathed himself in his jacket as though that would keep out the bone-chilling cold of the night. His eyes were well-adjusted to the dark, and he glared at the whimpering Calpurnia. "Drink," he begged. He wished he had learned hypnotism while he studied close-up magic. Could you hypnotize horses? He focused very hard, as though telekinesis was not just some story. “Drink,” he thought the word, sent it to the animal by sheer mental will. The horse seemingly ignored him. She bit at her side and sighed.

He woke up when the back of his head hit the hitching post that he leaned against. The rain had begun to dry into a musty mildew against his skin, and his hair clung to his head in hay-covered clumps.

He shouldn't fall asleep. The horse needed to drink –

But he was so tired, and the anger had evaporated to exhaustion.

He leaned back on the post, letting his head fall back, carefully this time, a watchful eye on the stubborn beast.

He stretched out his long legs next to the horse's head.

That was very comfortable, indeed. To stretch.

He let his eyes close, the pressure immediately relieved from his head. He really was so tired, and this horse was too stubborn for her own good...

"Erik!"

Her voice woke him and he started, losing his balance against the post on which he leaned. Christine stood next to him, wearing some pastel gown he had never seen before, her hair neatly placed in a careful bun. Her hands were on her hips.

"What happened?"

"What? Oh –" He stammered, suddenly a child in front of a disappointed parent. How had he let himself fall asleep? How could he have been so careless with the horse, who had surely –

He looked for Calpurnia but his eyes found empty straw next to him. The bucket that once held murky water was nearly empty. Surely it didn’t evaporate – had he inadvertently poisoned the damned horse –?

"Calpurnia – where is she?" he stammered.

"She's right there? Erik, what – why are you covered in straw?"

He ignored her question, instead following where she pointed. Next to one of the other horses, Calpurnia happily drank from the trough, standing far away from him as if to imply she wanted nothing to do with the odd intruder, as though the stable wasn't big enough for them both, as if they hadn’t been next to each other for most of the night, suffering together. Erik felt his hair, dry and crusty from the mud and rain the night before. His neck ached.

"Oh," he managed.

"What happened?" She scowled. "Why are you sleeping here?"

Her critical tone made him bristle, and he stumbled to stand. "I didn't choose to sleep here all night, if that's what you're implying."

"I wasn't –"

He didn't really want to hear it. He could feel himself, still covered in dirt, his head pounding from the strain of the night before, and she was standing there, unrecognizable from any other of the girls in town, scowling at him like some onlooker in the freak show.

"I'm sorry Calpurnia almost died last night," he snarled back. Her face reflected her surprise and she softened, but he didn't want to stop. The frustration had returned from the night before in full force, and he was too tired to care about her feelings. "I'm sorry you were too busy going home with your paramour to bother to check on her and see she was lying on the ground half-dead when I got to her."

"What –?"

"I got there in time," he said, editing the part where he had almost fled, had almost left the horse to die to prove a point. "She's fine, clearly. Not that you care. Don't you have some tea party to go to?" He gestured at her ridiculous puffed sleeves.

The air in the tent was suddenly unbearable, his face hot with shame, anger, and something else he couldn't place. Christine looked as though she had just been slapped, and she fidgeted with her gloves as though to distract herself.

He remembered his gift from the night before. On her hands, however, were not the kid gloves but stark-white silk gloves with pearl fasteners. Much finer than what he had handed her the night before.

She stared in horror when his eyes finally lifted from her hands to her face. Finally, an appropriate response. A response he recognized. He was, after all, a monster. Monsters did not give proper gifts to ladies. Monsters did not receive kindness in return.

“I…see –” he could not even finish the barb, his voice quaking with the sheer inevitability of it all.

Rather than let her see him cry, he stalked past her and out of the tent towards the creek. He could hear the silks rustling behind him but he continued on, jaw clenched and fists balled up.

"Erik, wait –"

He ignored her, letting his long legs put distance between them.

"Erik, please!" Her voice broke, and for a split second he hesitated.

"God dammit," he muttered to himself and turned.

In the early dawn sun, her eyes were rimmed red. She averted her gaze, blinking hard. "I don't know why you're acting like this," she said, her voice clipped and formal. “Please…help me understand you.”

“Yes, I’m quite the puzzle, aren’t I?” he hissed. The sunlight burned his eyes.

“You know what I – don’t do that, Erik,” she retorted.

“Do what?” he snarled. “Have…feelings? Yes, quite pesky, aren’t they? Would you prefer if I was some simpering aristocrat?”

“What’s that supposed to–” She pressed her hands to her temples. “You know what, I don’t want to know. I’m due at the house, they’ll notice I’m gone.” She patted her hair, as though anxious it not be out of place. Erik gritted his teeth.

"It’s that!" he exploded. “That–” he gestured at her, could not look at her. "What is that voice? Those clothes, those gloves – I don’t recognize you, Christine!" The insults spewed from him in a horrible torrent, uncontrolled.

He hated playing his whole hand, to lay his troubles out for her to mock, and he vainly tried to steel himself against her upcoming reproach.

"What –" her voice quivered again, and she looked up at the blue sky. A traitorous tear fell from her eye and she shoved it away with a fist to her cheek. "What are you talking about? I’m still me."

"Are you? I certainly don’t recognize you." He bit back the words. Every time you leave, I see less of the old Christine. I worry what will happen when you come next, when you no longer see me. When you are like all the others.

"I have nice clothes, Erik," she hissed the words. "That's not exactly a crime, last I checked."

"Since when do you care about that? Where did you even get those?"

She drew herself up a little straighter, sniffed back the tears. "My father has friends here. This is our home," she said.

The word home landed between them, planted itself, a virulent weed. In a circus, the word was almost a legend; it spoke of people lost, of harsh words exchanged, of a mother and son on the streets of Rouen with a rucksack and carpetbag, of people whispering behind their windows. Of a burning house with cruel mirrors. It was a word used against those without one, and a word rarely invoked in such a place as this.

Erik's chest hurt at the thought of her home. Perros. A town he could not enter without eliciting screams, a town she walked every day. Clothes and fancy hairstyles were one thing; having a place she could call home was quite another. They could not be more different, it seemed. How little he had understood.

He stared back at her, yellow eyes on brown, and nodded infinitesimally.

"I had a home too, you know," he said, his voice low thunder. "But it, like my mother, was taken from me. Or had you forgotten in your busy, new life?"

"Of course not," she said, though another tear fell, fat down her cheek. "I care –"

That was too much, too far. He would not be lied to. He turned on his heel and continued down the hill, far faster than she could move in such skirts and satin. It was mean, and he wanted it to be. He relished it, a balm to his wounds. But by the time he walked the half mile down to the river, the wounds had already torn open again, angry and red and bleeding. He crashed into the shallows, still clothed. He ripped at the buttons, hands clumsy and numb with grief, and continued deeper, farther from the shore until the water rose to his waist and he plunged under. The ice water stung his hot cheeks and he almost gasped, almost let the water in – would that distract him, would that solve the problem?

He held his breath until his lungs stung. Another Christine sprang to mind, dusty Christine with pine needles in her hair, giddy from falling off the horse, her peals of laughter permeating his soul with deceptive ease. Hell.

He heard the splash and before he could react there were arms around his neck and he sprang up, terror gripping his heart. He tried to stand but lost his balance at the dead weight anchoring him and they plunged back into the frigid water. The arms released in the depths and he turned in the current to hear cackling laughter as their heads broke the surface.

"You should have seen your face!" Christine shrieked, crouching in the murky water in her shift, soaked through from head to toe. He stared for a minute, mind slow to register. Christine's fine clothes hung behind her on a low branch onshore, a white silk flag of surrender.

"Christine –" he coughed, water in his lungs.

She took a tentative step towards him and he flinched. She bit her lip and froze. "I'm sorry. Can we be friends again?"

Friends. He coughed again, choking on the word. Her wide eyes were all innocence and pleading, and removed from her fancy airs and clothing she was almost – almost – his Christine again.

"Do you still love me?" he wanted to ask, but the agony of the answer would fell him where he stood, and he could not bear it. So he held back the words and nodded.

He staggered backward at the force of her hug, her arms wrapping easily around his thin torso in a death grip, her soaking head against his chest. "I'm sorry I'm sorry I'm sorry I know I haven't been around it's just –" she pulled back, brown eyes on his, and suddenly he couldn't quite remember why he was ever angry. Focus, Erik, his mind reminded him. Don't keep giving her all of you like this. "My dad is really insistent we stay in town, and suddenly all these people are over all the time, and he's calling in all these favors and suddenly I've got a trillion dresses and people are inviting me to events and Raoul –"

He tensed at the name, the image of that boy helping her into a late-night carriage fresh in his mind.

"He's a good friend," Christine reminded him, repeating herself yet again. "His family is letting us stay with him, which is very generous."

"Generous indeed," Erik said through gritted teeth.

"I miss you," he wanted to say, but instead he unclenched his jaw and said, "We – You haven't performed in a week."

She shrugged. "Firmin understands. Weirdly. I don't know. Something about 'giving my father some deserved time off.'"

"It's just –" Erik searched his brain for a reason he cared. Because I love you and can't bear to be apart would be too agonizing.

“What?” she asked, warm hands wrapped around his forearms. How he missed that feeling. How could he miss a gesture he had only felt a handful of times?

"If I'm not performing, I'm not earning my keep. I'll have to go back to the…show." He looked away.

It wasn't a lie – Firmin may not seem to mind a brief sabbatical for his violinist, and seemingly for one of his headliners, but Erik had put off several conversations with the owner about his daily goings-on. He wasn't sure how long "watering the horses" would stand as a viable excuse for why he spent his days in the stable, mostly napping between horse duties.

"I'll talk to Firmin," Christine offered, and his heart rate slowed. She really did always know what to say. "What about your mother?" Her voice was laden with guilt. "Did you discover anything while I was gone?"

"No," he said. "I thought – but I spoke to Piangi and – it's not possible they left her behind in Brittany…"

"Oh." She took his thin hand in hers and traced the lines on his palm, the odd, truncated lifeline, the criss crosses. One true love, a psychic once said to a younger Erik with a knowing look in her eye. "Don't lose her," she had warned. And Erik had scowled and handed her what he pick-pocketed as recompense for his skepticism, made it a point to no longer believe in the magic of circus. He looked down at Christine’s open palm, the shorter lines skating across it, the love line forked in two. Rubbish, all of it.

"Where's Firmin now?" Christine wondered.

Erik shrugged. "Not sure."

"Not in his caravan, I'd guess."

"Maybe."

"Want to check?"

"What?"

"Maybe we should check!" Christine wiggled an eyebrow. "If anyone knows where your mother is, it's Firmin.”

Chapter Text

They were dashing, soaking wet in the warm sunlight, back to the stable. They laughed as they both slipped in the grass, wearing only the clothes they needed to maintain some semblance of modesty, the rest balled in their fists as they ran.

“Erik and Christine, back in action!” she laughed when they reached the outskirts of camp, the stable and paddock their little sanctuary on the edge of the encampment. The horses barely lifted their heads from the grass on which they grazed in the paddock; Erik wanted to shout at them to rejoice, for their mother had returned to them.

But, they didn’t, and so Erik buried his giddiness while leading her into the stable proper.

“Proper spying,” Christine nodded at Erik with a conspiratorial glint in her eye. “Are you prepared, Erik, for breaking and entering?”

“I believe so, mademoiselle,” he retorted in his most serious tone. He was rewarded with a laugh.

Christine looked at the silk dress wadded in her hands.

"I don't know if I could wear this –"

“Perhaps,” Erik held out his arm in invitation in the same way he saw the gentlemen do at the dance the night prior as they led ladies in and out of carriages.

She took his arm and his heart leapt, soaring ahead of them toward the area of the tent that held the trunk in which he hid his meager belongings.

With a showman’s flourish, Erik released her hand from the crook of his bony arm and opened the trunk to reveal her old, usual riding clothes, neatly washed and folded, ready for her return. Christine placed the silk dress over the nearest stall, the gauze seemingly forgotten as the real treasure was presented to her. She held the dry clothes up to her river-soaked chest and breathed them in; it could not have been a pleasant smell, even washed as the clothes were, but she inhaled their scent as though they were doused in the finest perfume.

"Ah! Thank you," she said. She paused and bit her lip. “Oh, shoot – do you – my boots?”

“Right there.”

“Perfect.” She suddenly seemed distracted. She looked down at her soaked chemise and her arms folded immediately over her chest. "Ah – Erik…would you mind if you –"

"Oh!” Erik exclaimed. “Oh," he realized. “You want me to leave.”

“Do you mind?”

She had never been bashful before – she had only just run through the fields with him, barely a stitch of clothing on, without modesty. "Yes, er – no, I mean. I don’t – mind.” He stumbled out of the tent and into the afternoon sun.

What was this? he wondered. She had asked him if they were “friends,” when she had stripped away her fancy trappings and plunged into the river with him. Just a few nights ago in a field not so unlike the one outside this sweltering tent she had said that she loved him. Did that mean nothing to her? He felt himself grow queasy, embarrassment cramping his gust in wave after sickening wave, heat flooding his gnarled cheeks.

How could you be so stupid, Erik?

Before he could truly unravel the frenzy of emotion roiling in his addled brain, she was out of the tent as well, her wet hair wrangled into a braid, men's shirt and trousers fastened and belted to fit her. Erik was grateful for his strong heart; the dips and dives he was putting it through today were a test of its health. This Christine Daae, the salt of the earth girl with dirt on her glowing skin, nestled herself right back into the aching void of his thudding heart. The familiar yearning overwhelmed him, the impulse to bury his cursed face into her sun-baked hair and taste her lemongrass sweetness on his tongue. This was, of course, his Christine, more than the mysterious creature obscured in finery.

"Ready?" She grinned. He had to nod and push the worry from his mind. She was here, wasn't she? With him. Back in her old clothes, back to her old schemes...maybe they could return to the way things were. Surely, once they left Perros she would return to performing, he at her side, her confidante, her partner. His chest swelled just thinking about it. Yes, soon this summer would be nothing more than a terrible memory. Perhaps they would even laugh at it one day – the summer he thought he lost her.

"What are you thinking about?"

"What? Oh, nothing," he attempted a game smile. “Shall we?”

As they suspected, Firmin was gone from his stifling caravan, instead supervising the crowds from the circus entrance. They slid up the steps, the door mercifully unlocked and they fell into the now-familiar space.

"Hello?" Christine called – if there was an answer, perhaps they could pretend this was a social visit. But no answer came, and so Erik nodded in silence to her and they moved to his office space.

The area had become even more cluttered since they had last seen it. Even worse, everything was now stowed in various boxes and drawers, ready for the caravan to be hitched to horses and pulled to the next location without papers scattering and items breaking. This was perfectly suitable for Firmin – terrible for the two young people trying to find even a scrap of evidence of Madame Claudin’s whereabouts.

Erik turned to Christine and his heart gave a tug. It felt good to have her next to him again, her brow furrowed over endless ticket stubs and receipts, squinting in the low light. She had no part in his futile investigation; she had never met the woman who had so mysteriously disappeared, and yet she was taking the time to help him in his struggle. That, and seeing her in her own clothes, causing mischief and breaking the rules – well, perhaps his chest didn’t hurt so much when she looked up at him like that.

When would this, too, end? Soon, surely, she would have to return to her father, to her new world. Soon, the hope beginning to bloom in his chest would crumple again, the scab healed over and then picked off, more painful than before.

Christine must have noticed his daydream, because she asked, "What?"

"Nothing. I'm going to check his desk again," Erik said. They had already looked it over when they had stolen the Claudin’s belongings in that first, ridiculous heist of the caravan those weeks ago but he searched again.

"Christine!"

She rushed to his side and he breathed her in, a selfish wish for a man who would soon be dying yet again. He could feel her eyes burning into him, but he could not bear to look away from what had caught his eye.

Gone was the behemoth mahogany desk they had rummaged through that time ago. Now, a sleek cherry wood secretaire sat in its place, patterned with gold and turquoise inlay.

"I suppose Mr. Firmin is doing very well for himself," Erik breathed, examining the filigree. Christine held out two fingers to trace the edge.

"When did he get this?" she wondered. "How did I miss it..."

Her voice trailed off, but Erik made no move to comfort her. They had both missed it: she in her new skirts and new friends, and he distracted with foolish pining for her. What could this mistake have cost them? What else might have left the office during their inattention? Was his mother even alive? Could the answer be hidden in this new secretaire’s many drawers? He had been so busy worrying about his stupid feelings and who the girl in the silk dress was dancing with that he hadn’t even had time to remember the real reason he stayed here.

Christine pulled at the first drawer. It didn’t budge.

"Shit," she said. Erik saw the gleam of a golden lock above the drawer-pull. He groaned. In all the excitement and rush to investigate, he had left any lock-picking tools back in the stable.

"Do you have –" he gestured to her hair and she shook her head.

"I took them out," she apologized.

"No matter, we can come back," he said, already moving through the unlocked drawers full of useless papers, already feeling the hope of the day slipping through his fingers.

“I’m sorry.”

He was growing tired of apologies. “Check that drawer.”

They continued searching in silence, Erik keeping an ear out for Firmin. When he heard Firmin’s booming laugh coming from outside, he gestured to Christine and they headed out the back door before the owner could see them.

“We will go back,” Christine promised as the stable appeared in their sights. She tried, vainly, to meet his eye. “Tomorrow.”

Erik did not have time to respond, for a familiar, angry voice echoed across the camp.

"Christine Daae!"

Christine froze, her face ashen. Erik frowned. She had never reacted so strongly to her father's voice before. What had changed? More than just his own relationship with Christine, it seemed.

"Papa," she said, voice small. Erik watched in anxious interest as the bearded man stalked towards them.

Christine had said the sea had been good for her father, and, yes, there was new color in his cheeks, but it seemed to be from anger, not health. No, Erik was certainly surprised by the sudden change in the violinist: he seemed pale underneath the high spots of red on his cheeks, and his trusty old suit now hung off of him like borrowed clothes. The usually broad-shouldered man seemed somehow shrunken; sweat beaded at his browline at the exertion of tracking down his daughter.

"Where have you been?" Gustave growled, his voice gravel and anger.

"I was just –"

"We had tea scheduled with Lady de Chagny this afternoon!"

"I forgot." Christine scratched her neck and averted her gaze. Erik groaned internally. She had never been a good liar.

"Forgot!" Gustave's voice shot up, triggering a coughing fit. He attempted to dislodge the thick phlegm from his throat; Erik attempted to make his exit. He was barely inside the stable when Gustave turned on his daughter.

"What did I tell you, Christine? About him?"

“His name is Erik, Papa.”

“And what did I say about Erik?”

“He can probably hear you –”

“I don’t give a damn if he can hear me. He should hear me!” The voice bellowed through the thin fabric of the tent. “I told you to stay away from him!”

“He’s my friend!” The old Christine had returned triumphant, he could see it clear as day though he hid behind the canvas. He could picture the way her little brow scrunched, her hands on her hips ready to take down a man twice her size with her words alone.

Erik tried to ignore the way it healed and hurt him at the same time. He had never had a friend. Family, sure, he had that, once – but you didn’t choose that, and they made that abundantly clear throughout his brief, miserable life. A friend, however…yes, that was a good feeling.

But what little Erik knew of the uncertain landscape of friendship was damning. You did not kiss your friends. He knew that much. You did not kiss your friends and you did not taste the dew from your friend’s bare shoulders under pale moonlight. You didn’t share your heart’s deepest secrets to someone who was just a “friend.” You did not want to steal your friend away from this place and spend the rest of your days with her, only her…you did not love your friends in this way.

Gustave was continuing his tirade on the other side of the wall. "I have worked very hard to get us this time away from here. The de Chagny's were very hurt that you missed tea – and after all their hospitality. Raoul –"

"Raoul doesn't care about all that," Christine said, and Erik could imagine her chin up in defiance of her father. But why was she defending this boy? And why wasn't she allowed to be here? He had thought it was just a vacation, but the way Gustave was talking implied something more strict.

"That may be, Christine, but his family – they aren't like us. They care about these things, and it's important that while we are under their roof we follow their customs. Now we are expected to dinner tonight, and I will not be making excuses for you anymore." He coughed again, and Erik peered from the tent to see Christine standing over her hunched father, rubbing his back as he pressed a handkerchief to his mouth.

How quickly everything could changed. Erik had a terrible feeling gnawing at the pit of his stomach at the realization.

Christine tiptoed through the opening in the canvas. She was pale, eyes wide. Her hands shook as she unbuttoned her old shirt and reached for the fine linens again.

"What–" Erik had no time to move out of her way as she yanked her half-tied corset over her head, pulling at the strings. Her skin was ashen and her mouth was shut tight. "Christine –"

"It’s fine," she mumbled. Her fingers grasped for the corset strings at her back, the unwieldy garment refusing to tighten. She tore at the laces as though to try a different plan of attack. Her face reddened and the strings tangled in her hands. "Ah!"

She threw her arms down in defeat, eyes to the heavens as tears threatened to breach her defenses. A single tear trickled down her cheek as she sighed her last breath upward.

"Wait – Christine." He moved her hands from the ties. "Let me help you," he offered.

"I don't need help," she whimpered.

"I know." It was true. How much had these last weeks taught him that she could move through the world – the real world – without any help from him? However she felt about him, she did not need him. But now he wasn't so sure he could continue without her. He had opened himself to her, without realizing, and he couldn't close his heart even if he wanted to. He would now pay for that mistake in his own heart’s blood.

Slowly he pulled at the laces, stopping when the boning of the corset hit the curve of her waist, reluctant to pull them too tight. He was reminded of the dancers at the previous circus, their corsets pulled tight against their bones, an assault on their bodies for a small waist and the chance of attention. He suddenly remembered his own mother's carefully applied makeup in deep reds and blacks, a mask of her own choosing, one she could wipe off at the end of the night before checking that he was asleep.

This corset, these fine clothes, were an entirely different beast than the trappings of the circus girls. They weren't even constructed the same, the linen intricately trimmed with lace and ribbon, stark white, the luxurious color of the aristocrats who could afford several pairs of underthings, could pay someone to clean them, things someone would wear with the confidence of knowing stains would be dealt with or the garment itself summarily replaced. Christine sniffled and he laced the middle with a secure bow of string.

"There," he whispered. "Better?"

She nodded. She finally looked at him, eyes rimmed in red. "Thank you," she said.

“Don’t mention it.”

It came out harsher than he meant it, but he already could feel the difference between them growing wider as she fastened her underskirts, her skirt, her bodice. Again, he moved to help her, but she didn't need help, never had needed help, and her fingers fastened the buttons herself.

She wiped her eyes and grinned, the smile of a performer about to set foot on stage; hollow, temporary. "How do I look?"

Erik rolled his eyes, trying to build some sort of defense against her. "Unrecognizable."

The grin faltered, and he hated how he was glad for it. Artifice between them just hurt more. He wanted to hurt her a fraction of how he hurt.

"Go to your father," he said. "I'll be here."

She reached out her hand, but apparently thought better of it, the few feet between them suddenly an impassable chasm. If she was going to touch him again, it no longer seemed likely.

"Goodbye, then," she managed, taking another shaky breath and with a hard stare at him. It took all his energy to seem nonchalant.

"Bye," he said, already moving to the evening chores, not letting himself watch her leave. He could hear the low tones of her conversation with her father, a woman trying to calm just another nervous horse.

Don't worry Gustave, Erik thought to himself. You won't have to worry about this monster near your daughter much longer.

Chapter Text

Christine did not return that week.

The hope fluttering in Erik's chest first quieted, then settled, then slowly dissipated, taking with it any of his motivation. He went through the motions, waited for the day the jig was up. Each day, Firmin made a point of checking up on him, lingering longer every time, and Erik knew his days of independence were dwindling. Taking care of the horses was, now, a flimsy excuse for freedom. Every morning, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the watering troughs, reminding him that he would never blend into the background, would never be relegated to “just a stableboy.” No, the divots and crevasses that made up his poor excuse for a face meant he could never disappear, not fully. Soon, the value of such a face would imprison him once more; a life in the freak shows was, after all, what he deserved.

Still, freedom was a heady drug, and he wracked his brain as to what he could do to stave off imprisonment. The need to discover the truth behind his mother’s disappearance pressed on him. He needed to find out what had happened, continue investigating – anything to stave off the relentless voice in his head reminding him how Christine had left him alone, yet again, despite her promises to him. She no longer appeared at the brilliantly lit hotel over the ridge; or, if she did, Erik somehow missed her, though he went every night to watch. Finally, he stopped. He just stopped walking up the hill and turned back to the horses. She was lost to him, lost to that other world. He tried to block the pain of her desertion, berating himself for failing to anticipate how inevitable it was. Fool.

He stumbled back to the stables, uneasy grief setting in. It would hurt worse in the morning. Once inside, he felt something underfoot and pulled his boot back. In the track made from the shoe, a tiny vial of peppermint oil.

He remembered when he had found it, a few weeks ago, and had asked Christine.

“What is this?”

She had smiled, the lantern light casting kaleidoscopes of gold onto her dark hair. “Put that away, if you want to live,” she laughed. “That’s Cesar’s favorite; he will practically eat anything that smells like it.” She had pet the enormous, ornery stallion’s velvet nose and made as though to block his sight. “No, Erik isn’t holding anything, put your big head down,” she had teased the horse, and the vial was not thought of again.

It was now Cesar snorted and stamped his foot, reminding his stableboy to refill his trough.

"Oh Cesar," he approached the horse, and the beast mouthed at his clenched fist, the vial still in his hand, just as insistent as Christine had said. “Careful!” he reprimanded. “You are crazy for the stuff…”

He ran his free palm over the warm, white horse, the hide silken. An idea, a tiny root of an idea was forming. "Maybe you can help me."

Erik watched as Firmin pushed through the growing crowd, oohing and aahing at the spectacle that Firmin could not see from the fringes. Visitors usually didn't come out to the stable, even when the horses were out; they preferred the food carts and sideshows. But there was a whisper, spread by a mystery man to the performers, then to the crowds, and it had grown to a hum, then an audible buzz by the time the patrons had followed the rumor to the paddock just before dusk, jostling for coveted seats on the fence rails all the better to see the promised action.

"What –" Firmin said, finally clearing the last row of spectators.

Erik could imagine the surprise the old man felt at what he saw beyond the circle of onlookers. Not a freak, not a lowly stablehand, but a man in a black mask and silver cape, doffing his top hat to the oglers leaning on the fence. The manager would have never seen him this way; Erik relished the satisfaction that bloomed in his chest at Firmin’s dumbfounded expression.

Cesar, decorated in his glittering show-tassels and his saddle, stood there next to the magician in his silver cape.

Erik, always the showman, dramatically produced a fan of playing cards and stepped closer to the children hanging on the fence, putting on a show. Firmin nearly knocked a woman over in his effort to see him; might as well make it worth his while.

"What's your name, love?" he asked a small blonde girl.

"Sylvie," she answered.

"Well Sylvie, I want you to pick a card. Keep it secret – do not show it to me! And we are going to see if Cesar can guess your card correctly."

"A horse can't do that!" A brash boy of about eight argued back, sitting on the fence post.

Erik grinned. It was, he knew, usually a horrifying sight, but under a full black mask it could be almost...charming. "Then, sir, I must ask that you pick a card as well. Surely a horse cannot choose TWO cards correctly."

The boy frowned and pulled a card from the oversized deck.

"See it? Memorized it?" Erik asked the two and they nodded. "You can show the crowd, as well," he gestured, and they showed what Erik knew without seeing the card faces were the queen of diamonds and the ace of clubs. The crowd murmured, but did not say the cards – as if the horse would hear them and cheat.

Erik reshuffled the deck and fanned them out in front of the white horse. "Alright, Cesar, psychic stallion of the Far East, horse of pharaohs and queens, will you choose Sylvie's card?"

The horse stared back. The audience held their breath. One man, presumably the grumpy boy's father, muttered, "Nonsense, I told you." Firmin looped his thumbs into his suspenders as he did when he was surveying something unsavory. Erik felt the manager’s patience waning; no matter, he would show him as well.

Then Cesar protruded his top lip and carefully tapped the top of a card in the fan. The crowd made a noise of surprise.

"You sure?" Erik asked, and the horse stomped his hoof twice. The crowd erupted into gasps.

"He understands him," someone in the crowd gasped and made the sign of the cross. "God's creatures are wondrous, indeed!"

Erik slowly, with a black-gloved hand, procured the card the horse selected.

"Sylvie," he said, voice low and controlled, a showman with the audience in the palm of his hand. "Is this...your card."

When he turned the queen of diamonds over, the crowd gasped and erupted into applause.

Erik stood, arms overhead, taking in the praise for only a few moments before interrupting them. "Now now..."

"Pierre," the boy said.

"Yes, Pierre here still needs his card." Erik nodded, and the boy seemed to cheer slightly, his eyes on the horse. Again, a hush fell over the crowd. The horse selected another card, more to the left, and stomped his hoof again. Erik, even more slowly, pulled the card from the pile.

"Pierre –"

"Yes." The boy had lost much of his grumpy cynicism in the presence of the magical horse. Doubt flickered in his eyes.

"Now Pierre, you must be very certain this is your card. Do not lie to me and say it is," Erik said, voice kind and firm. The boy's father put a hand on his shoulder and the crowd leaned to see the card.

The ace of clubs shone back in the sunshine. The audience exploded.

"Thank you, thank you," Erik said, removing his top hat to accept coins. "Tell your friends about Cesar the psychic horse!" he reminded them as the crowd dissipated, many taking second looks at the strange horse and his masked handler. He noticed that Firmin stayed fixed as stragglers untangled themselves from the fence rails.

"Mr. Claudin," Firmin demanded, frowning. "What on earth are you up to?"

Erik tilted his head, considered the question. "Performing, sir. I assume this is still a circus?"

Firmin flushed red at the insolence. "Yes but...what is this? I did not give you permission –"

Erik thrust the hat into his hands. It was very heavy indeed, with the coins weighing it down.

"Oh, oh my, that’s quite a lot –" Firmin sputtered, clearly scrambling for his train of thought. He seemed to find it when he looked away from the glimmering coins. The manager’s face had turned a remarkable shade of scarlet in the process. "Look, boy, I did not give you permission to perform...magic tricks! I didn't know you could even do such things!"

"At my prior employment I was primarily a magician," Erik frowned. "Surely my mother told you?"

"Oh, ah – no, she did not. She was with us such a short time, after all," Firmin stammered, reddening further. "Well, you can’t just – these are the Daaes’ horses."

"And the Daaes are not using them," Erik reminded him. "I assume there's no harm in giving the horses something to do in the meantime. I am their trainer, after all. Per your instructions."

Firmin pressed his lips together. "Just a – a side show – nothing more. And this cannot impede your other duties; and this cannot aggravate your ankle. We need you fit when we head out next week."

"Next week?" Erik hadn't heard they were leaving so soon.

"Yes, we move on to Saint-Brieuc." Firmin said. He scooped a small handful of coins from the hat and handed them to Erik. "For your, er, showmanship. How did you manage that trick anyway?"

Erik shifted the vial of peppermint oil deeper into his pocket. "A magician never tells, sir." He gave his most dazzling grimace and watched the manager scowl and walk away, the coins jingling in the hat as he went.

The days passed lazy and slow. Erik could feel the watchful eye of Firmin as he amazed the crowd with a growing array of silly parlor tricks, each modified in order to incorporate the horses. It was easy, given Cesar's already imposing appearance and his penchant for treats, and Erik found himself enjoying the spotlight again, free from the captivity of the freak show tent. He did not know how long it would last, but he was determined to make the most of his liberation while it lasted.

At night, he sat around the fire with the other circus folk. At first, they stared at him in surprise; after all, he hadn't had many positive interactions with them in his tenure there. Still, they did not turn him away, and that was enough for now. He attempted to strike up conversation and even answered some of their prying questions; he avoided Marguerite's suspicious stare. Slowly, he incorporated his own questions: what did Firmin do, before this? Did many people leave this circus? Where did they go when they left? Had anyone known his mother? Had they seen her the day before she disappeared? Had anyone heard from her, and not told him? When people wanted to disappear, where did they go?

Mostly, people waved him away. Occasionally, after a little drink had been passed around the fire, lips got looser. Firmin was an old junk salesman with a knack for gambling, won the circus in a lucky hand of cards. Erik asked how people felt about him. No one had a negative word beyond the usual complaints: someone groused it was a hard schedule to follow; someone wanted higher billing in the big top; someone was refused a raise. Nothing about a temper, no skeletons in the man's closet beyond a few errant poker debts to circus members, nothing over five francs. He was mulling this over, seated on the timbers that passed for seats, staring hard at the fire. He didn't notice her approach.

"Careful, baby," Marguerite said in a soft, not unkind voice. Erik immediately bristled.

"I know what I'm doing," he said, not taking his eyes off the orange blaze of the fire, his eyes dry and stinging.

"I don't doubt that," she laughed and then tossed a spent cigarette into the flames. It snapped and crackled before dissolving into the heat. "I'm just worried about what you'll find when you do get those answers you're searching for."

Erik looked up to her, and her brow was furrowed in maternal concern. Something in his heart lurched, and he wished Christine was there with him. He felt naked, too exposed to this stranger.

"I have to find her," he snarled, standing and stepping over the logs to leave the circle. "I'm not afraid of what I'll find."

He had to walk for quite a while before he could catch his breath once more.

Erik knew how to draw a crowd, despite his reservations about the public in general, and so he tailored his act as the days continued. That morning while he fed the horses, Calpurnia had broken loose from her hitch and had taken to following him around like some big dog, and he found he didn't mind it. He liked the little sorrel mare, and after their night of crisis, he felt some kinship with her. Besides, he hadn't heard a whisper from Christine and taking care of the herd by himself was no small feat. Without the Daae’s stunning (and profitable) performance, he needed to do something if he was going to offset the cost of keeping a herd well fed and cared for.

So he, his shadow Calpurnia, and Cesar took to the paddock as the crowds piled in the circus for the day. The act had grown to several impressive routines: the card trick, a counting game, and even leading the audience to believe Cesar was reading fortunes. He adjusted the black mask over his face and smiled, grateful for the disguise; no one would guess the masked magician was wearing such a costume for practical as well as theatrical purposes. It felt good.

It felt good. Raoul’s hand in hers helping her out of a carriage, cakes and cookies piled up in elegant stacks on doilies and tea trays, surrounded by girls her age, including her, laughing at what she said, this was what normal people got to do all the time. And Christine Daae was normal, now. Yes. It felt good.

It had to.

Her father did not say it, did not pressure her into the teas, and the rituals; the boring mass on Sunday, the walks through the parks that she wished did not carry on so long. But she saw the way he spoke around these people, saw the reverence in his bowed head and formal words.

He did not just speak differently to the de Chagnys; Perros changed Gustave, and it startled Christine. Gone was the circus performer with his late night storytelling, ale splashing gold in the firelight; now he retired early from the salon, forwent the strolls after church on Sundays to take the short walk home. Christine found herself remembering when he would carry her on his back, her first ride in the makeshift saddle of his broad shoulders. Something ached in her chest, a nostalgia for a time that would not return. She found herself memorizing the twinkle from the candlelight in his eye at dinner; no longer admonished him when he repeated the same story she had heard a thousand times before.

“Don’t look so sad, my darling,” he chastised over the de Chagny’s ivory chessboard. “You look too forlorn for a girl your age.”

She forced herself to relax her brow, blinked away what was a dark thought. They came faster at night, came in with the moonlight reminding her another day had ended. How many more days would there be? The thought dashed red and bloody against her mind, a splotch on her father’s handkerchief he thought he hid effectively from her. She knew, of course; he did, too, she assumed, though he no longer ranted, or raved, or lectured her about snooping in another person’s things. The edges had all been sanded from Gustave like the cliffs that faced the sea here. How long until the wind swept the last of him away?

She blinked again, shoved the thought away and sat back in the chair. Behind her, a hand reached for her rook, placed it decisively on Gustave’s pawn.

“Ah,” Gustave beamed up at the intruder. “You’ve got me again, Raoul.”

Christine frowned up at the boy, who grinned down at her. “I could have done that,” she grumbled.

Gustave shot her a look of warning. The de Chagnys had loved her parents, once, but that was years ago, and hospitality was not a guarantee in a world such as theirs. It was, as he reminded her, a great opportunity they had been given.

“Yes, but you didn’t,” he chided.

Christine bit her tongue and smoothed her skirts. The breeze from the open window fluttered her many petticoats, and she stifled a sigh.

It was, again as her father often reminded her, a different world. In exchange for the solace of opulence, endless leisure, and the assurance that you would never go hungry came a set of rules and expectations. The next morning, she tasted the salt air and imagined what it would be like to run straight into the surf. Instead, a maid laced her corset and draped yet another thin gauze layer around her waist, fastened a blouse with a million seed pearl buttons she could never do up herself. Only her hair gave the rigid maids pause; one suggested she shave it off and try again next time, so unruly it was that day. Soon, though, even her curls relented to the hot comb and pins, and she was, as Madame de Chagny declared, “pretty as a picture.”

She had been in a picture once before, on a rearing stallion, a photo manipulated by the circus owners to make her seem more spectacular, holding lit sparklers and grinning an unnaturally bright smile. She found it funny, at first, but when she did not look only at her manipulated image, but the poster as a whole, she swelled with pride. She was the most daring, most spectacular rider in France. She could defy death. She was the sparkling diamond of the big top.

“Christine.”

She nearly tore the lace hem of her skirt at the sharp sound of the girl’s voice.

“Are you even listening?”

She blinked. “Yes… sorry,” she apologized. Elise raised an eyebrow, the very picture of her mother making the same, judgemental face, and sipped her tea. They were on the veranda today, to catch a breeze from the sea, and were far enough away from the girls’ mothers to be able to hold their own court quite uninterrupted.

“She’s probably thinking of Raoul,” laughed Charlotte, a knowing, snide tone in her voice. The other girls cooed in a way that made Christine bristle.

“Yes, you live with him – you must tell us everything,” Adelaide leaned in over her cake, nearly staining the white linen with pink frosting.

Christine had been through this ordeal before, and it bored her. She sighed and looked at the clear blue sky: weather they would squander sitting here gossiping.

"I wish we could go riding," she blurted out. The girls stared back at her as though she had suggested smearing themselves in mud and diving into the sea they now sat facing.

"Whatever for?" Charlotte laughed in a way that suggested the idea was ridiculous. "You smell like horse all day, and your figure is at quite the disadvantage from that ridiculous height."

Christine furrowed her brow. "But haven't you ever run – truly run – on a horse?" She smiled at the thought. She could feel Raya's wide back under her, in a full gallop. "Have you ever known that freedom?"

"Where did Madame de Chagny find you?" Elise sniped, and the rest of the girls erupted into giggles.

Christine felt herself shrink, looked down at the pale tea in front of her. No, Gustave had no need to waste his time warning her about telling her new friends the truth.

She dodged the question. “Did you know Raoul wakes up every day at dawn to swim out to the lighthouse?”

This had the girls erupting into screaming giggles, peppering her with questions. Did he wear a shirt during this? Did she ever follow him? Did he come home soaking wet, tanned by the sun? Did she have a drawing of that? Could she perhaps draw one, now?

Raoul was not new to summering in Perros, but apparently he had grown up quite well since they saw him last year. Christine was able to answer their inquiries about him, and so they tolerated her presence. As the days went on, she watched them, perfect pastries in their pastel dresses, walk and take tea and sit with exquisite decorum and attempted to mimic them. She must have done a passing job, for as the weeks continued the snarky comments decreased. It seemed what girls like Charlotte wanted most was an audience; while Christine valued the paying audience of a circus for their honesty and enthusiasm in exchange for an entertaining show, Charlotte seemed to expect total loyalty despite her performance being rather dull indeed. Christine missed Erik's candor – sometimes, during a long winded story from one of the ladies at tea, she would imagine what Erik would say if he was there. That made her smile very much indeed.

"What are you smirking at, Christine?" Charlotte demanded as they sat in her parlor, slowly drinking lemonade in the shade of the potted palms. It was a grand house indeed; Christine couldn't guess the money Charlotte, or indeed Raoul, had in their family to afford such beautiful second or third homes, besides the enormous estates and homes in Paris that they often spoke of. She had a fleeting thought to describe her own sleeping arrangement under the stars, with just a saddle blanket and a boy more skeleton than man next to her. Charlotte's frown suggested she shouldn't.

"Nothing," Christine said.

"Good. Because this evening," Charlotte leaned in to tell the girls the secret, "Henri is taking us to the circus!"

She laughed a peal of giggles, the naughtiness of the suggestion making the girls erupt into a fit. Only Christine did not laugh. The circus was nearly a mile from town, and it was spoken of only in covert whispers and suggestive rumors of what was hidden behind those gates. It had seemed no one in their circle was actually planning to attend, let alone would be allowed to.

"Christine, you have to invite Raoul," Charlotte said with a Cheshire Cat smile.

Christine stammered. "Oh, I'm not sure I can, my father isn’t feeling well –"

"Nonsense, your father can spare you for a night. And we want to see Raoul offer you his arm!" More laughter. Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Charlotte was already holding court. "Cece, see if your brothers will want to go – I know Elise will want Bernard there!"

Another peal of giggles, and Christine felt herself smile, fake and plastered on. Well. This was going to be fun.

Chapter Text

Chapter 21

The night air was sweet with hay and spun sugar when the group arrived at the circus. The starched linen of her collar scratched at her neck and Christine had to keep letting go of Raoul’s arm to adjust it.

“Are you well?” he asked in a low voice, so as not to alert the rest of the coiffured, giggling girls and their dates. In the glow of the gaslight surrounding the circus entrance, his hair shone golden, his brow handsome. Untroubled. She needed to be untroubled. After all, her father had warned her before she left: "Enjoy yourself, my dear. But let the past be in the past. You're a smart girl. People like our new friends do not understand why we made our living the way we did." He had tucked an errant curl behind her ear. "Keep that piece of you to yourself tonight."

Surely, her father was overreacting as always. Elise’s father was a banker, she had said. Charlotte, for all her complaining, came from a mining family that struck it rich. These people knew what work was, what it was to need to feed their family. Her father had shaken his head, but he was wrong.

He had to be.

Yet she had taken the carriage ride all the way here in silence; had not spoken up while the rest of them conjectured what they would see behind these quickly looming gates. She took dainty steps forward toward the entrance, just like the other girls. She was, for all intents and purposes, just like them, as far as they knew. Her head ached with the weight of her chignon, her curls dominated by hot comb and pomade, pinned into submission and stowed tidily under a fussy hat that matched the emerald of her walking outfit. If she thought too long about the lacing, the ties and buttons and fastenings encompassing her, she felt a bit dizzy.

She clung onto Raoul's arm like a lifeline to her masquerade as a society lady; if she let go, there was no telling what would happen. The carriage would turn into a pumpkin in front of Charlotte and Henri and Elise and Bernard and Adelaide’s brothers – and Raoul of course – and she wasn't sure she wanted to see how that performance would end. She stepped through the circus gate and prepared herself for the stage.

"Cotton candy!" Charlotte squealed. Elise rolled her eyes, but the group stopped at the cart.

Christine froze as the line thinned, their turn approaching the enormous spinning contraption where pink floss was spun onto paper cones. Georges, a man who had helped her corral Cesar more times than she could count, a man who once had been the one to lift her onto her little pony when they traveled, had always winked at her across the campfire when her father was cross, doled out the cotton candy to the man in front of her.

So this was it, her adventure would end before it even began. She prepared her confession as the last group ahead of them stepped away and she stood no less than two feet from Georges.

"Cotton candy, miss?" he said, staring over her with the glazed expression of a tired worker who saw dozens of girls just like her in the last hour.

"Oh–" Christine stammered. She didn't know what to say; Raoul pressed a coin into the man's hand and handed her the floss. They stepped away from the cart as the man said "Enjoy, miss."

He hadn't recognized her.

Had she changed so much? She was reminded of another night, the sadness and mistrust in a pair of yellow eyes when she had appeared in her new clothes. It was just a bit of pomade; a skirt. Was she so different?

Part of her wanted to run back to the cart, to yell "Georges! It's me you dolt! You always snuck me leftover sweets at the end of the night!"

But then she remembered her father's words, and pulled a tuft of cotton candy from the cone. It dissolved on her tongue, sickly sweet. They walked on.

Raoul beamed down at her; the heat of it burned her cheeks. He poked at the confection. "I hadn’t thought to ask if you liked cotton candy,” he apologized. “But I love sweets, so the more the merrier!"

"Yes, sorry I just–" What could she say? He was being nice; she was being sullen. "I love sweets, too. Thank you."

The girls could be heard up ahead of them; Elise was already complaining. "I'm bored,” she scowled. “Where are all the salacious sights I was promised?"

"I think there's a big top show," one of Adelaide’s brother's offered, his arm around his sister, to her chagrin. "Let's go there!"

"That's not until 7 o'clock," Christine piped in. The group turned to her, as though they had almost forgotten she was with them; she had answered too quickly, she realized. She swallowed. "I read the sign?" she offered.

There was no time for anyone to pick up on the odd tremor in her voice; Elise had stopped short, sending Henri bumping into her back. He narrowly avoided getting cotton candy in her flossy hair. She was pointing forward at something in the distance, and everyone strained to see what had caught her attention.

“There!” Elise exclaimed. “Let’s go there.”

Unlike the rest of them, Christine didn't have to look at where she was pointing. Her skin was icy cold. Someone pulled at her arm, urging her forward. She heard the rest of the group come alive with the giggling shrieks of the easily scandalized.

"Let's go!"

“Yes!”

“Please!”

And so Elise led the way to the Freak Show.

Christine hung back and reached for the boy in front of her. "Maybe we shouldn't, Raoul," she suggested.

Raoul gave a self assured laugh at her grip on his arm. "Are you nervous?"

Her pride flared. "No! I just – don't care to go in."

"Come on," he pulled her along. "I'll protect you from the big bad monsters."

Christine felt very ill indeed.

Each footstep felt heavier than the last, the lace at her collar choking at Christine’s neck. She wondered if Raoul could feel the pulse under her fingers which latched, desperately, at his suit jacket.

The group paid their coin admission, then hovered near the entrance. Elise’s determination had suddenly left her and she was making a show of being nervous to hold onto Bernard more tightly.

"What if one of them grabs me!" She squealed into Bernard’s chest, eyes darting around to see who, among the boys, noticed her fear.

Charlotte, lips pink from cotton candy, had paled; she scrambled closer to Henri, who seemed concerned at those sugar-stained fingers touching his light grey jacket.

"They can grab you?" she asked.

"I heard they have a giant in there!" one of Adelaide’s brothers suggested. "I bet I can take him, right, Raoul?"

Raoul laughed good naturedly and shook his head. "I'm not sure, Jean-Paul.. Let's wager, shall we?" That shut him up.

"I can't! I can't!" Elise wailed, enjoying the audience. "Bernard, you must hold my hand the whole time!"

"Are we going, or not?" Christine demanded. She could see no escape but through, and the waiting was almost more agonzing than the deed itself. She would not be able to restrain herself from slapping Elise if she continued carrying on in this manner.

Raoul looked down in surprise. "Oh! Er – yes, I suppose we should. Any one want to be the brave volunteer to go in first –"

Christine had already stomped into the tent, arms crossed. A long time passed before she heard her companions follow her – no doubt Elise performed another dramatic monologue about needing Bernard to defend her from imminent danger. Good. She had time.

She shoved through the crowd, making her way to the bearded lady's display. There, Marguerite sat at her prop vanity, twirling the tassels of her robe in an amused sort of half-performance. The whole display around her was the picture of femininity; all to make her beard the more jarring to scandalized onlookers. It was those onlookers that Christine shoved rudely aside.

"Marguerite!" Christine hissed. "Marguerite!!"

It took a few whispers, getting increasingly louder, before the woman looked down in her direction.

"Oh! Christine! Good lord I didn't recognize you – oh, darling you look so beautiful –" Marguerite reached a ringed hand through the bars of her display and clasped her hand. Christine's eyes pricked with tears; she hadn't realized how much she had missed her old friend until she was face to face with her. Her seconds were already dwindling – she could hear Raoul calling for her in the crowd.

"Marguerite, I'm here with friends," Christine said carefully.

"Oh, is that the famous Raoul? Your father filled me in – dishy is he?" Marguerite wiggled an eyebrow.

"Yes yes, but Marguerite – they don't know I work here. They can't know!"

"Why not…?"

"They're, well, they're not like us," Christine explained. "I need your help, I can't be recognized or they'll think I'm a total freak.”

Marguerite raised an eyebrow.

"You know I don't mean it like that,” Christine said, gripping her hand tight between the bars. “Please, Marguerite, my father asked me to do this.”

Marguerite softened. “Sure, baby. I’ll see what I can do.”

Christine breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank you, Marguerite.” She let her surrogate mother’s hand slip from her own. Then, she remembered: "Where is he? Where is Erik?"

But then she felt someone at her elbow and turned to see Raoul.

"I was so afraid something had grabbed you!" he said, smiling fondly. He looked at the cage. "Taking in the bearded lady, are we?"

Christine nodded, turning back to the display as though an onlooker. She tried to avoid Marguerite's meaningful "is this him?" look, but nodded in his general direction in answer to the wordless question.

Elise sauntered up to Christine’s other side, seemingly done with her case of the nerves. "Don't worry, Christine, even you aren't as hideous," Elise sneered up at the display. "At least you don’t have to shave your face!" She cackled a laugh and Christine swallowed the bitter taste in her mouth. She looked away from the girl, anything to keep bile from rising in her throat. Only Raoul did not laugh, staring intently at Christine’s own downturned mouth.

The freak show tour continued this way, with the group making various rude comments about the people in displays who were very capable of hearing them. Christine fell quieter and quieter, Raoul's attention on her, and his polite laughter at their jokes becoming more and more intolerable.

"I heard there's a skeleton man," Charlotte piped up after what felt like their interminable journey through the exhibition. "I want to see it."

Christine realized Marguerite hadn't answered her question. Her heart thudded in her ears; she did not hear what Henri responded. Where was Erik?

A curtain was drawn back and they stepped to the back of the tent. Christine stared down at the hay-strewn ground, the footsteps of the shuffling crowd kicking up particles into the air, dancing like snowflakes in the oppressive heat. The air itself stood suffocatingly still, the hair at the nape of her neck prickling at the beads of sweat around her collar. She clung to Raoul for lack of anything substantial to do, to say. They were laughing loudly, too loud, a cacophony assaulting her pounding head. Her short fingernails dug into the linen of Raoul’s suit jacket; he was too busy joking with his friends to notice.

The skeleton man glared down at them from an enormous garishly painted poster, wild yellow eyes ablaze in a shrieking bone white skull, death incarnate, hell come to earth to wreak vengeance. One of the jewels of the freak show, such a specimen, the minotaur of this canvas labyrinth.

Christine was reminded of a very different time, when she first saw him on display, a boy in boots untied, hair pushed back from his face, hunched on a tiny stool. A boy who made every effort to be still, to be calm, to be the opposite of the creature on the posters around him; anything to save his dignity. A boy who stooped over candlelight to stitch stars into her dress.

The last group funneled out of the display and it was their turn. Even if she wanted to flee, they had to pass the cage to the exit. Another circus worker did not see Christine Daae for who she was, let them continue through. Christine held her breath and closed her eyes.

"Did we miss it? The skeleton man?" she heard Charlotte ask Raoul.

Christine opened her eyes to the merciful cool air at the tent’s exit. Behind her, an empty cage, obscured in darkness. The air kissed the beading sweat on her forehead and she sucked in the breeze with relief. He was not there.

"Maybe it's gone," Elise suggested.

"Or maybe it's loose!" Bernard said, sneaking up behind Elise and clapping his hands around her waist. She squealed. "SKELETON MAN come to EAT YOUR FLESH!"

"Excuse me," Christine said, shoving Raoul away from her side. She did not wait for an answer before she dashed behind the tent. An uprush of acid burned her throat and spilled onto the dirt, splashing pink cotton candy bile onto her white hem.

She hated them, hated their laughter, hated the way they all endured each other’s inane conversation and half-obscured gibes yet could not be bothered to tolerate any of the innocent performers in the tent. The way they could barely tolerate her.

A hand on her back made her straighten, and she covered her mouth, suddenly self conscious of the mess she had made.

"Christine, are you alright?" Raoul asked, eyes full of concern.

Oh Raoul. Raoul was nice to everyone. He couldn’t possibly share the awful views of the others! After all, hadn’t he and his family invited them to stay? Wasn’t it a de Chagny sister’s dress she was wearing, and getting dirt on the hem, no less? She owed them more than she could ever repay; she shoved away the unkind thoughts and tried to smile.

Smile like Raoul was smiling at her now. People like him knew how to act; people like him didn’t ruffle any feathers. People like him didn’t get sick in the dirt and curse people in their mind. Keep that part of you to yourself, tonight.

She took the handkerchief he offered, wiping her mouth. “Thank you,” she muttered.

When she was certain she could stand up straight without feeling dizzy, they prepared to rejoin the others. He told her to keep the soiled cloth, "in case she still needed it." It was embroidered with his family crest. Nice going, Christine, she admonished.

As her mouth stopped watering and her tears receded from the edges of her vision, she realized something. She had been granted a great gift; Erik was not there to be embarrassed, and her friends were still her friends, and her father’s orders had not been disobeyed. The show could go on; she would make her father, at least, proud of her.

"Do you want to go home?" Raoul asked. Around the side of the tent, the girls nearly bounced with energy. It was not long before the big top show; she could make it through that, at least.

"No, I think I'm alright. Just no more cotton candy," she joked. Raoul laughed his genuine laugh, a lovely rich sound. A part of her relished that she had evoked that, not Elise or Charlotte.

They walked a loop around the circus, biding their time until admission to the big top show. Christine stayed next to Raoul, not a bit ashamed that he kept his hand on her back, "for support, from her illness." She noticed the envy in Charlotte’s gaze as she fawned over Henri, and she returned the coy smile that she had learned from Charlotte herself.

She was so busy relishing the hateful glare from Charlotte that she didn't notice the direction they were wandering until it was too late, and she could see the stable's tent, undecorated, brown and unassuming. It looked just as she left it…save for the growing, rowdy crowd around the paddock.

"What in the Lord’s name is this?" Christine said to herself, earning another surprised, genuine laugh from Raoul.

"Do you want to see?" he asked, but she was already ahead of him, pulling his arm, leading him through the crowd, shoving people aside as she made her way to the paddock.

"Is this your card?" The masked magician displayed a large card to the audience, who gasped in awe.

"Are you fucking kidding me," Christine murmured to herself, and Raoul startled at her side. "What the fuck is he doing?"

"And for my next trick," Erik continued. Cesar wore his show gear, enormous red feathers on his headdress, standing more obediently than he ever had for her. On Erik’s other side, Calpurnia also stood in her glittering tack, nuzzling at him affectionately.

"What on earth –" Christine muttered.

"I think it's a magic show...with horses!" Raoul helpfully explained.

"Thank you, Raoul," Christine said, teeth gritted. He looked down at her, startled again.

"I will now make this baton disappear!" Erik announced to applause from the audience.

"Let's see it!" someone in the audience called back, to laughter. Christine shook her head. Circusgoers always had something to say. How would Erik respond to skeptics?

"Alright!" He held the baton in his broad hand, the fingers of his other hand splayed behind it to show it off to the crowd. "Guillaume, are you still there? Say the magic word!"

A boy sitting on the fence rail puffed up his chest and his cheeks and yelled "Abracadabra!"

With a wave of his cape and a flick of his hand, the baton disappeared from his hand to "ohs" from the audience. Even Christine’s eyes couldn’t track where the stick had gone.

Hadn't he told her about his magic? She wracked her brain; yes, of course he must have. Hadn’t he?

"Thank you, thank you," he bowed, over and over.

Overkill. Christine rolled her eyes and applauded with the crowd.

Behind him, Calpurnia crept up beside him. She nosed at his pocket as he bowed and bowed, lips peeling back to reveal her broad teeth. Children pointed and yelled, but the magician seemingly did not hear them.

The mare pulled out the baton with her teeth and waved it around triumphantly, her head bucking as she whinnied.

The audience erupted into laughter at the trick being revealed. Erik winked broadly at the audience from behind his mask before reprimanding the horse.

"Calpurnia! You are supposed to be my assistant, not tell all my secrets!"

The horse snorted in response, and the children laughed. Raoul gave a little polite laugh as well. Christine realized she had been smiling without even realizing.

"Alright, Calpurnia, I think it's time for the big finale, don't you?"

The horse nodded. The audience cheered and murmured in expectation. What could possibly come next?

"It's like she understands him!" A person near Christine commented.

She nodded. "Yes, it's like that, isn't it?" How had the boy who hated horses turn into such an accomplished horseman? Even Cesar tolerated him; no, more than tolerated. She had trained them from infancy, but never like this, never in such a short amount of time. Something like curiosity crept up in her chest. Curiosity, nothing more; she was certainly not jealous of Erik. Certainly not of the ease he had with the crowd, the rapt attention he commanded, the deft way he handled the show and the audience as one. She did not, certainly, want to jump in the ring and beg to be included.

No, that was not the case at all. She dug her fingernails into her lace sleeves and bit back any misguided craving for her circus life.

Erik had produced a curtain on a frame. The black fabric was taller than he, a little wider than a horse was long, and ran all the way to the ground.

"Now ladies and gentlemen, what you are about to see has never been attempted before. I will make this horse disappear!"

He gestured to Cesar who was treated to generous applause. The horse gave an indignant snort, but obeyed his master.

"With the help of my beautiful assistant,” he said. Christine realized he was talking about Calpurnia. Poor thing would get an ego. “I will attempt to make this 2000 pound animal disappear into thin air before your very eyes.” He stood next to the curtain. “Cesar, if you please.”

The horse walked, docile as a lamb, behind the curtain.

"Now, certainly, people may not believe the horse is behind the curtain. Cesar, are you there?"

The horse whinnied from behind the black curtain, and the children laughed. Someone in front of Christine shifted, and she shoved a little forward, Raoul close behind, until she found the railing of the fence, clung onto it with both hands.

In spite of herself, she felt drawn to the show. Erik had that effect, some odd magnetism, a sudden charisma. Had he always had this gift? Had she gotten in the way of his talent in some way? She had no idea he was such a showman; quite the opposite of the boy in the cage. She remembered the black mask, the lovingly tailored brocade waistcoat when they had their moment in the big top. Of course he was a showman, Christine. How often had she not listened to him? Misunderstood him so wholly? Not truly seen him?

"I need a willing volunteer to say, of course, the magic word – no, Guillaume, you already went, let another have a turn," he said. He scanned the audience, the children hanging on the fence and raising their fat fists in the air. Too late did Christine realize how close she stood to the front; a voice in the back of her mind whispered that of course he had always known she was there.

Christine didn't have to look at him to know he saw her. "Perhaps you, madame," his voice lowered considerably, – it swept over her in that odd way he could cast his words, nearly a whisper. For a moment she was in a meadow, a cool stream, along a shoreline; remembered summer evenings that caught her breath in her throat.

She wondered how many of her thoughts he could see displayed so plainly on her face. You’re a wonderful performer, but a terrible liar, he had teased her more than once. If he noticed anything, it was concealed by a glittering, performance-ready stance, his misshapen grin rendered charming by the mysterious black mask.

Raoul nudged her. "Christine, I think he's talking to you," Raoul was whispering too close to her ear, and she was bright red, her whole self in agony. She had forgotten he was standing there, on her side of the fence, standing as close as decorum allowed. Erik’s yellow eyes bore through her, but the grin didn't move. Two could perform, then.

She smiled her best trick rider smile. She would not let him see her sweat. "Abracadabra."

A glint in his eye, and she knew what he was going to do before he did it. Asshole. She shook her head, but the menace knew exactly how to get under her skin. She could kill him. "A little louder, if you please," he goaded.

She did not let her showgirl smile slip from her face, imagined cheerfully strangling him. "ABRACADABRA!"

"Thank you," he said, a little too intensely, before he turned. "My good assistant Calpurnia, show us if it worked!"

The horse lifted her head and with a grip of her teeth and a few tosses of her head, pulled the curtain from the rack holding it aloft.

Cesar was gone. The crowd gasped and cheered. Christine kept her eyes trained on the empty space, ignoring the magician; she could not bear his scrutiny.

Erik and Calpurnia bowed. Christine felt herself clapping, an automatic gesture, too mindful of the fact that she was being watched by yellow eyes. He passed the hat through the crowd far from them. She turned to leave, but the crowd was thick and she could not escape in time; before she could stop him, Raoul placed a coin in the practically full hat.

"For your troubles, my good man," he said, and Christine cringed, wishing she was anywhere else but here. "I have to ask, friend, what is with the mask?"

She couldn’t take it anymore. "Let's go, Raoul." Without another look at Raoul, or her horses, or Erik’s eyes boring into her soul, she pulled Raoul away through the crowd.

She didn't stop until they were nearly at the circus entrance. Long gone were the girls, their dates, where they went, she didn’t care. Theirs were not the eyes she could feel burning into her back. How dare he hold her thoughts captive? How dare he judge her? How dare he pierce through her facade as though it was nothing more than another layer of gauze in her skirts? She needed to leave.

Only politeness, presumably, kept Raoul from snatching his sleeve from her grip. "Christine, are you quite well? What was going on at the horse show? You seemed –"

She felt as though she was going to be sick again. She took his hand. "Raoul, I have to tell you something,"

"Your hands are cold –"

"–and please don't talk until I'm done, alright?" When he didn't say a word, but nodded, she continued. "I...was acting so oddly tonight because…”

Her father’s words rang in her mind. But this was Raoul! He was the kindest of her new friends by a mile; he would understand. Besides, how else could she explain her behavior? You’re a terrible liar, the voice in her head whispered, the trickster god in a black mask reminding her of her old world in an instant. Stupid Erik. She could show him, could prove her father wrong. She took a breath.

“I…work here. I've been so uncomfortable tonight because I… The truth is that I'm a circus performer." She bit her lip, let the unspoken words stay that way: just like the people you all mocked tonight. Elise was right; I am no different than the bearded lady. The masked magician. Laugh at me, too, then.

Raoul furrowed his brow. “You…work? Here?”

She nodded, the words coming out in uneven rushes. "I know when the big top show is because I usually am in it. And I know the magician and the horses because those are my horses and he – Erik, his name is – he helps with my show. And I'm good at it. Really good at it. And I love it." She felt the tears fall from her eyes but she let them, sniffling.

Raoul stared at her.

"Are you going to say something?" she asked. “Call me a freak, too?”

He frowned. "Christine…"

“It’s true.”

“Certainly not,” he corrected. “You –” he gestured at her, a motion that perplexed her. No doubt her hair was a mess, and she was red-faced, and dripping tears.

"What?"

"You, Christine Daae, are a very nice girl. And if you think I’m going to hold something as silly as your past against you, you…” he took a step toward her, brushed a tear from her cheek with a featherlight motion. From here, she could see his golden eyelashes, could see the hard certainty in green eyes. His was a face of brief emotions; no lines betrayed long nights of worrying, or fear, nor creases from tell-tale laugh lines. For a moment, she saw her life with Raoul laid out before her; little jokes, small smirks, few frowns, no fears. It was tempting, and she could still his fingers against her cheekbone, could change the night very quickly. But she kept her arms wrapped tightly around her middle, and she let his hand fall back to his side. “Well, I wouldn’t do that. I have loved having you stay with us. You,” Christine held her breath, uncertain if Raoul was about to change the night regardless. “Fascinate me.” No, he was holding out his arm, and she took it. “If you’ll allow me, I’d like to walk you home.” He got another flash of something across his lovely features. “Please indulge me by fascinating me further?”

She breathed. He did not think her odd. Did he…care about her? Of course her father’s concerns had been unfounded. Of course Raoul understood.

Then why did she feel so terrible still?

She sighed. “Yes, I think I’d like that.” She ignored the twinge in her chest.

“Now stop crying!” He laughed his boisterous, aristocratic laugh, the one he used when people were watching. He pulled her into a half embrace, careful to not let her tears hit his jacket. "Let us head home. I'm a bit tired from everything – there were quite a lot of sights, weren’t there?"

Christine nodded. They left word at the gate for their companions; took the moonlit walk home. The wind whipped up from the coast; they talked of Perros, of the distant past when they had last crossed paths, the songs her father used to play on the violin. They did not speak of the circus, or the magician, or what it meant that Christine held onto his arm so tightly. She did not ask what, if anything, Raoul meant by being fascinated by her. He had not reacted, as her father had suggested, negatively to her news. She should have been the picture of happiness.

She wasn't sure, then, why she felt a pit in her stomach as they said their goodnights. Or why, as she let her head hit the fine down pillow, she missed the smell of old saddle blankets wrapped around her, the feel of hard dirt under her back, and the lingering caress of golden eyes.

Chapter Text

Days returned to normal; the new normal, that was. Her friends regaled those who hadn’t attended the circus with sordid tales of their near brush with monsters; Christine bit her tongue and sipped her tea and neither she nor Raoul spoke of what she had confessed that night. When she returned to the de Chagny house each night, she found herself catching Raoul’s eyes across the dinner table, and at tea, and during cards after the brandy was served. Once, when Raoul was making a show of peeking at the cards in her hand, in the candlelight she could have sworn she saw a conspiratorial glance between Gustave and Lady de Chagny; but then the light changed, and her father needed his seat pillow adjusted, and Lady de Changy had a need to adjust a vase of flowers and it was gone.

She did not have the chance to ask Raoul’s mother about that look, because everytime she had a moment to speak to her hostess, she was asked about her mother. Christine had very few memories of her mother, and she was surprised to learn that she was a proper lady like Raoul’s mother.

“How did you meet? What did she look like? How did she talk? What was your favorite thing about her?” Christine peppered the lady with questions until she bordered on impudence, but if she caught the lady at a good time, when not much was happening in the house besides a lazy tea time and a girl with too much energy, then maybe she would tell her something – anything. They had met at school; she had lovely hair like Christine’s, if not more manageable. She spoke her mind; that was her favorite thing about her: her honesty. Christine found herself sickened by how she envied the woman’s grief; the grief of someone who knew a person, who missed their smile. Christine had only an unmoored grief and a photograph in her father’s violin case.

“Sometimes,” said the Lady de Chagny with an odd look in her regal eyes, “you look just like her.” She pressed her lips together. “But then you get some wild idea in those eyes of your father’s and it’s gone.”

Christine fell asleep with the rain pattering on the roof, drowsily pondering this new vision of her mother. No wonder her father scorned her rebellion. She felt as though she could touch the version of herself she would have been had her mother survived: pleated skirts and high tea and a dowry chest, waiting for someone to sweep her away in marriage. A part of her ached for it.

The drizzle lulled Christine into a restless slumber. She dreamed.

She was a porcelain doll, her skirts stiff, her hair permanently molded in perfect ringlets. Lady de Chagny, enormous, towering over her, plucked her from her bed and straightened her limbs, smiling a disinterested, thin-lipped smile. Christine felt herself released, then an odd, weightless sense of falling and she was in the de Chagny house, but an uncanny version; a dollhouse, everything miniature and artificial.

She had just barely landed on the couch when someone else picked her up again. Her father placed her in the conservatory. When she went to protest, she found her mouth was permanently stuck in a frozen smile.

Only when a third giant hand, that of Raoul, reached into the house did she wake with a start.

“UGH!” she huffed, her skin sticky with sweat, her palms clammy. Last time she would partake in the nighttime brandy, then. She was just imagining things. Rain pattered at the window, insistent and arhythmic.

Wait.

That wasn't the rain at all; someone was throwing something at her window. She stared hard into the night, sure she was imagining it, until sure enough another pebble ricocheted against the glass.

She stumbled to the sill, her hair falling in her eyes in a frizz, and pushed up the sash. A slender figure stood below, yellow eyes flashing unnaturally in the moonlight behind a black mask.

"Erik?" she hissed. She cast a look over to the other windows, horrified if the de Chagnys or her father woke. "What are you doing here?"

"Come down," he threw his voice to the window, and it was as if he was standing next to her. She shivered.

"No!" It was raining, besides. She peered down into the courtyard. He stood, peering up at her, the puddles among the cobblestones reflecting moonshine onto his phantom form.

"Please,” he begged.

Something about his voice seemed different. Desperate. She scowled and closed the window carefully so as not to make a sound. What could he possibly want? She pulled on her emerald dressing gown from the vanity chair and crept down to meet him.

Her slippers immediately met a cold puddle as she stepped into the courtyard, the delicate material soaked through. She pulled the dressing gown more closely around her and glared at the windows. Anyone could look out, see them.

"Not here." She pulled him through an opening in the hedge to the side of the property. They could remain unseen from here, obscured from the moon by the house itself, and hopefully less heard. The rain drizzled, giving her hair a frizzled halo.

"What are you doing here?" she asked. It had been nearly a week since the circus. She imagined Erik walking the miles from the camp, in the rain. It would explain how his hair slicked back, the way his white shirt was drenched through to his skin.

Erik looked like he was in physical pain. He opened his mouth to speak, then closed it.

The rain was cold; she was tired. "Cat got your tongue?" she demanded. "I've never known you not to speak your mind."

He chewed at his lower lip. "Can I ask you something?"

"You came all this way to ask me something?"

"Please." The desperation was back in his voice.

"Fine," she sighed.

He couldn't meet her gaze directly. The shirt clung to his bones, exposed the way his arms flexed and stiffened as they crossed tightly around his middle.

“Why did you lie about Raoul?"

"I did no such thing," she choked on the words. This was what he travelled so far for? "He's a friend."

"Don't lie," Erik said through gritted teeth. "I saw you with him, all night...on his arm. That's not just friendship. Not in this world. Even I know that much."

"He's just a friend," Christine shook her head. "I was sick, and he was being very kind," she added. She did not mention why she had been sick, or the scene outside the freak show tent. All the luck she had felt at not running into Erik in there suddenly felt hollow; of course he would not let her off so easily.

"Do you love him?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "As a friend." She emphasized the words carefully.

"Is that what I am to you? A friend?" he bit the words back at her.

"Well, I'm – it's different, with you," she managed.

Erik looked very ill indeed. Christine stared back, perplexed. "Is that why you came all this way? Are you jealous?"

If the rain wasn’t falling quite so hard, and Erik hadn’t looked quite so bereft, she would have laughed. How could he possibly be jealous about Raoul? After all they shared? But the time for laughter had gone, and they stood, facing each other in the night.

Erik, finally, broke the uneasy silence. He was almost whispering, as though the wind had gone from the sails of his big plans of confronting her. "I don't know what you think this is, but this isn't a game to me."

She stared back, silent concern written on her face. He continued.

"It's not just jealousy, Christine. It's like I barely exist to you. Like the circus doesn't exist to you. Marguerite said you didn't even tell your new friends you work there, that you perform...would they look at you the same if they knew?"

Christine picked her chin up, defiant. "As a matter of fact, I told them the truth.” It was a stretch, but her hackles were raised and she did not care to look stupid on top of feeling so exposed in front of him.

If he was surprised, he didn’t show it. "And?"

"And they didn't care who I was. Because they are my friends."

As if he could sense the edges of her half-truth, he asked, "If you were in one of those cages, would they?" She had to look away from his accusatory gaze. The words overheard in the freak show tent had not left her.

She sighed. "I have a chance to live a different way of life than what we've had. Is that so wrong?"

"You're lucky you have the choice."

Christine faltered. Of course she could put on a gown and laugh along with the society ladies, painful as it was, without attracting suspicion. "The Skeleton Boy" did not have such prospects. "I'm sorry," she offered, her hand on his arm.

"I don't want your pity, Christine," he flinched away.

"Then why did you come?" she snapped again, weary.

"I just wanted to see what your choice is going to be."

"My choice?"

It was his turn to laugh, a short, sardonic sound. "You can't have both lives forever, Christine. You'll have to choose!"

Tears pricked her eyes. "Why are you doing this to me?"

"I'm not," he said. "You are, by staying away this long.” He looked up at the big house. “You really want to live like this? With tea parties and dances and rules…” He made it sound like a bad thing. Was it a bad thing?

"You could have this too.”

He smiled softly. "No." He gave a sardonic, lopsided grin beneath the lip of his mask. "I don’t domesticate easily. I used to think you –” He broke off, looking away sharply to collect himself. “Besides, I love performing too much. I thought you did, too, once."

“I do,” she insisted. She had balled up the fabric of her borrowed dressing gown in her hands, and she had to focus to release them. “I do. I’m not–”

A hoarse voice called from the window. "Christine? Is that you out there?"

She turned to the window, saw a glow from a lantern being lit. If her father checked her room, he would have his answer and her hide.

Erik had already retreated into the shadows. She could no longer see him.

She was biting her lips to the point of pain, trying to keep her tears at bay. Why was this feeling like another goodbye? Why was everyone pushing her to make choices she wasn't ready to make?

“No, wait!" she choked. "I choose you!" she called after him.

Barely visible in the starlight, he shook his head. "No you don’t. Not now. I won’t wait forever, Christine. I can’t."

She stumbled after him, slippers slapping deep puddles, her hem soaked and tears streaming. But his legs were long and his steps sure, and her skirts and her misery slowed her down, and her father had seen her.

"Christine! What are you doing down there?” From the window, her father had only a glimmer of his old frustration. He shivered in the night air.

“Sorry, Papa!” she half-whispered up to him.

“Get back inside! You'll catch a chill."

When she turned back to the shadows, Erik was gone.

Her father had barely listened to her half-formed excuse and instead shuffled down the hallway, moving stiffly to his bed. She stumbled back to her room, shivering and crying, and fell face first into the blankets, but sleep did not take her.

Why had he come tonight? Had he just wanted to ruin her night? Of course she cared for Erik, and her life at the circus...how dare he accuse her of not wanting to be there? She gritted her teeth. Raoul was just a friend, obviously...Erik was stupid to not see that. And hadn't her night visiting the circus been hard enough? She had been sick, and had to deal with those horrible people, and now Erik just showed up to make her feel worse?

She wept harder. Why was everyone demanding so much of her? What was this "choice" Erik spoke so ominously about? He didn't know what he was saying, he didn't know her father’s plans.

Soon she would be back performing at the circus, this summer would be a distant memory, and life would return to normal. Her father would be better, he would again play the fiddle, and she would have her horses, and Erik...What if he was telling the truth? What if he was not there when she got back? The thought turned her stomach. Was that feeling – the free-fall in her gut – love? If not, what did love feel like?

She had said she loved him, when he had said it to her. It was an impulse, an escape from the intense way he stared at her. She had said it before, of course, a fleeting and passing statement she had always said to her father, to Marguerite, to her horses, and she always meant it...but she shouldn't have said it to Erik, not in the way he heard it. They had shared such a beautiful night together, and kissing him...well, it didn't feel like any of the other boys she had ever kissed. She wanted to protect him from the world, and defend him, and when she saw him perform at the circus, the crowd captivated by his every movement, every word...she had to admit she liked the way she felt under his spell. She was beyond just impressed – she felt in awe of him, and she could picture them together, performing again, enthralling hundreds of people with their ingenuity and charisma. Her heart raced at the idea...she could see it, hear it, taste the sweetness of that victory.

She inhaled, face pressed to the pillowcase. The maids used lavender soap; it was light, lovely. She had never been so clean, so well taken care of as she had been here. The de Chagnys had money, influence; her father's health could improve, no longer did he have to work all day, and neither did she. How many times had she loathed her morning chores, going days without bathing, sleeping on the ground, wishing to be anywhere else? How often had she envied visitors going home to a warm bath and a warm bed as she travelled on horseback all year, living hard and going hungry when the weather was too poor to perform?

How often, in the early days, had she wished she could say, "I'm from Perros, I live there in the little house on the hill?" She could imagine the little house, maybe a cottage, with space for her horses. Her father, sitting out looking at the sea beyond the cliff where their little house stood. Music in the evenings, nothing to worry about, a full larder, a weekly service where they would see their friends, a place where she could simply walk and get what they needed for their week. In her fantasy, someone else was there, in the shadows, helping her with her horses, hauling hay to the little stable, listening to her father’s violin in the evenings. She strained her imagination to clarify her vision – was it Raoul? Or did he wear a mask?

Erik was telling the truth – or, his truth, she knew. He had never been welcome in little towns like this, had always been driven away. There was a reason he and his mother had arrived at the circus; it was their only haven. But things were different these days, more accepting. He too could have a life, walk through town on Sundays with someone on his arm. Was she that girl?

She planted her face into the pillow and let out a low wail, frustrated now more than before. Visions of her future, of Raoul, of Erik, of an audience, a cottage, fluttered through her mind until exhaustion claimed her. Dawn rose over the house and only then was she able to fall asleep.

--

She couldn't breathe. Her eyes popped open, as did her mouth to let in much needed air. She gasped as she sat up, the room spinning.

Her nose...ohh, her nose was so stuffed, and her head was pounding. She had felt like this before, one terrible winter in the North...

Christine Daae was sick.

She pulled the covers over her head and groaned. It seemed the universe was intent on killing her before the blasted summer was over.

The maid entered the room. Christine tried and failed to hold back a sneeze as the poor woman attempted to open the window.

"Oh! Miss, you startled me," she commented. Christine revealed her swollen face, hot with the already building fever. "Oh! Are you well?"

"Obviously not," she sniffled. She watched from her sickbed as the woman rushed from the room to alert the house. Christine groaned again.

The lady of the house came first and laid a hand on Christine’s forehead.

"Oh you are burning up, my dear," she commented, and sent for the doctor and for soup, to soothe her sore throat.

Her father came in next. Christine nearly burst into tears at her father's worried expression. She was once again six and feverish, wishing for her Papa.

"Papa," she whined. "I don't feel well."

"I know, my dear. Let me sit with you." He pushed the hair from her sweating forehead. "That's what you get for being outside in the rain!"

"Nonsense!" she retorted, her voice thick and hoarse. "You know I've been out in worse weather and I’ve always been fine."

"Yes, my dear," Gustave said. "Perhaps the air in town is a little different. We aren't used to it."

She nodded, already turning over to her side, the mere act of sitting up painful.

"Do you like it here?" he asked. She made a noise of affirmation. "Good, good," he said, trailing off. She dozed under his soothing hand on her hair.

The next few days were blurs of doctors, odd remedies that hurt her tongue, and visits from various members of the household. One day, Raoul stood in the doorway of her room, apprehensive to enter lest it be improper. But once she told him to "just get in here, I'm decent," he stayed by her side and read to her, keeping her company until her father returned. It was sweet, and the poetry was just the thing to lull her back to sleep. On the third day, her friends arrived. Elise’s nose seemed quite out of joint that their friends were kneeling around Christine, giving her advice and offering her novels that she could read while on bedrest. Christine was grateful to them; they couldn't have known she had no taste for novels. Their intentions were pure. She appreciated it.

But mostly, she slept, her dreams full of warnings, of decisions. She ran on the beach, the sand pulling her legs deeper and deeper downward, threatening to snap them right from under her. The waves churned and crashed against jagged rocks, sucking her into the riptides against her will. Her head pounded, her mouth was constantly dry, and her room was sweltering hot. One minute she was sweating, the next freezing. In her haze, doctors returned, her father with them at her side, even Raoul there looking down, worried. She couldn't understand them, but could hear them talking in hushed, worried voices.

On the fifth day, after a restless afternoon, cold towels were placed on her forehead and she finally, blissfully, slept. The dreams this time were peaceful. She was back on the beach, but the sand behaved itself, the waves pulsing slowly, lapping, warm and languid, at her toes, the rush of the surf pleasing to her ears.

She heard something low and thudding, and she turned, a knowing smile already on her lips. Raya, no bridle or saddle in sight, galloped from some unknown horizon towards her. She was going far too fast, but Christine knew she would stop before her, and stop she did. She felt the velvet of Raya’s muzzle on her palm, the heat of her breath. Her big eyes stared back at her, the total trust of horse and rider between them after so long still unbroken.

"Hey girl," she called to her. Raya blinked her big brown eyes at her and Christine woke up with a start.

She stared, wide eyed. The dawn broke, yellow and gay, into her room, the orange and reds of sunrise still lingering, forming a halo around her father’s russet hair. He woke at her gasp.

"Christine! You're awake! We feared –"

"I have to go outside," Christine said, shoving the damp blankets off. She ignored her slippers, her dressing gown, and headed for the door. It was slow going; God, she was so stiff from being in bed. Her father called after her, but she was driven by something stronger than her father's wishes.

In the hallway, Lady de Chagny came out in her robe at the commotion.

"Christine! We thought we'd almost lost you –" she said, but Christine passed by her without a word. She could hear Raoul's mother call for her, but she continued down the hallway.

Behind her, Raoul had emerged from his own room. "Christine, where are you going? You should be in bed," he called after her, but still she marched on, barefoot, down the staircase of the big house and then across the foyer towards the front door.

"She's mad! Raoul, stop her!" Lady de Chagny was quite disturbed, but Christine had already opened the door.

Just as Christine knew she would be, Raya stood there, hitched to one of the posts on the house’s front grounds. The mare snorted at her owner, and Christine burst into tears.

"Oh, Raya," she said, wrapping her arms around the horse's neck and holding on for dear life, suddenly very weak and very homesick for her old friend. She kissed Raya’s rough hide and the horse stood obediently, letting her coat be soaked through with the tears and sweat from the broken fever of the weak girl in the nightgown standing before her, barefoot on the gravel road.

The household had followed after her and she heard Madame de Chagny gasp at the horse.

"What on earth–?" she began.

"This is my horse, Madame de Chagny!" Christine cried. "And I've missed her so much!"

"But how did you know –"

"Who could have left her here?"

Her father’s voice came, sure and grave. “Who indeed.”

Lady de Chagny seemed to border on hysterics at the spectacle, but she was still the lady of the house, and her authority rang through the chaos. "Raoul, wake the servants. Have the stable-hand clear a stall for this poor creature."

Christine turned her face into her horse's neck and sobbed, and laughed. She did not notice the shadow of movement from across the way, nor the yellow eyes that flashed in joy before turning away into the shadows.

Chapter Text

Only after much cajoling from the rest of the house did Christine leave Raya's side. She left barely long enough to pull on a blouse and skirt before she was heading out again to the stables, her boots untied and loose around her ankles.

Someone, someone she didn't know, was standing next to Raya with a curry comb in hand.

"Excuse me...excuse me!" she called, jogging the short distance. "What are you doing? That's my horse!"

The man looked up, but continued to brush the horse. He wore red livery; his hair was pulled back in a neat tail at the nape of his neck. He seemed unbothered by the volume of her voice.

"I said stop!" She put her hand out to halt his untangling of Raya's mane. "What are you doing!?"

"Ma'am, I'm simply grooming your horse here," he said in a country accent. "Those are my instructions, groom the new horse. I always groom the horses, and clean the tack, and ready them for when the mistress wants to ride."

Christine stared back, suddenly remembering where she was, and what she was doing. No doubt he thought her a lunatic with her untied boots and wild hair. "Oh,” she said simply.

The man continued to brush. She continued by means of apology. "I didn't realize...I've never had anyone groom her but me, see, and –"

He nodded. "These wealthier folk employ about ten of us here for the summer." His eyes widened at his own bold speech. "I mean no disrespect, ma'am, if you're– I mean, I'm sorry if I offended–"

Christine laughed. "No, no! I'm not one of these ‘wealthy folk.’" She reached out, her palm upturned for the brush. "Do you mind if I groom her today? I miss it."

The stableboy shrugged. "Suit yourself, miss." He handed her the curry comb and left the stall, ducking under the lead line securing Raya.

"Hey girl," Christine crooned to the horse. She ran the back of her hand against the velvet of her muzzle and immediately felt calmer than she had in days. Her thoughts turned to how Raya had gotten here. Of course, she could not ignore the most likely theory: that Erik had spirited her here, hidden under the cover of dawn’s mist. She could not help wondering what this would have meant should he have delivered Raya to her. What it meant that she knew Raya was there before she had even seen her. She was still too weak from her illness to think too long on it. She brushed harder against Raya’s dappled neck.

She thought instead of the waning summertime, getting back in the saddle, a beach ride, perhaps. Raya’s presence gave legs to her stolen freedom; surely she would not need to spend every day in a stuffy parlor when the fresh outdoors was now once again open to her.

"Christine?"

She turned at the sound of Madame de Chagny's voice.

"Hello!" she replied.

"Oh!" Madame took a second look at her. Christine looked down to see her dark skirts covered in dust from the horse’s hide. She must look twice the fright she had looked that morning, a sickly ghost running down the hallway past her hostess. Yes, Raoul’s mother had, once again, a pinched look about her as she addressed Christine. "I was just coming to see how you were feeling, my dear."

"Much better, thank you," Christine smiled.

"I was wondering if you might accompany me to town," the lady of the house suggested, adjusting one of her white kid gloves. “I have to make a trip to the modiste. I thought we might remeasure you for the season.”

Christine bit her lip, her hands twisting through Raya’s mane. The horse shifted, as though she shared Christine’s apprehension. Another dress, another parlor… "I was hoping I might ride today.” She tried to hide the disappointment in her voice.

"Oh! This won't take but a moment. I have some people I'd like you to meet."

The whole afternoon, then. Christine hesitated. She remembered her father's expectations of her, and attempted a game smile.

"Certainly."

They returned back at nightfall, having been pulled into half a dozen shops, then not one but two houses for refreshment and various conversation with other society ladies. Christine was in possession of two fine new hats and Madame de Chagny had persuaded her to add a silly amount of lace to a very sensible forest green day dress. She was sure the entire outing had been quite expensive, but Madame de Chagny insisted. “I will have no guest of mine running around in outdated fashion. Please, allow me.”

So she had allowed her, and it had turned into a social visit when they saw Lady Harriet in the haberdasher, which segued into a last-minute tea before dinner with the Pasquiers.

Christine was grateful for the whale boning in her corset, for she could slump just so in the rigid walnut dining room chair and stay relatively upright. Madame de Chagny loved to talk, and it seemed she was determined to cram as much chatting in as possible before the summer ended – a date quickly approaching.

As the ladies talked and she leaned against her stays, Christine replayed her conversation with Erik. He seemed to think there was some impending “decision” she had to make. Surely, once the de Chagnys left their summer residence the decision would be made for her: the Daaes would return to the circus. Then, once she was back in her little stable with her horses, she supposed she would have to decide where she and Erik stood.

There was no reason to be nervous. Then why did her heart fall into her stomach every time she thought past the next few days?

Christine wished her horse goodnight and was pleased to see the same stablehand laying out fresh hay. She thanked him; his name was Louis and he had been trained to care for horses by his father. Christine smiled at the notion that even in this small pocket of the world there was another kindred spirit who enjoyed the smell of saddle polish.

Unlike her owner, Raya seemed perfectly content to descend into bourgeois decadence. The horse snorted but did not cease her munching of hay, blissfully happy in her gilded cage of a stall. "You've never had it so good, eh girl?" Christine patted the mare’s neck. "Tomorrow, I promise we will go out riding."

Tomorrow, though, came with the excitement of another two invitations for tea, a dinner that night. Gustave, too tired to attend, encouraged Christine to go. She looked wistfully outside at the quiet stable as she packed into the carriage next to the de Chagnys for their day’s obligations.

The next day, a ball was to be held at the Orlean estate as a going away celebration; they were packing up their mansion and leaving the following day. Christine tried to dash to the stables with her curls subdued in their rollers, earning a reprimand from her maid, who dragged her back to her room to continue preparations.

Soon, the week was out and Raya still stood well rested and fat in her stall.

She must have looked glum at dinner, because Raoul asked her what she was upset about.

"I want to go riding!" she exclaimed.

"Oh, is that all?" He laughed, poking at her frown lines with his pointer finger. This only served to make her angrier. “You’re such an interesting creature. We can go tomorrow."

"Really?" she asked, skeptical.

"Of course. It's been ages since I've ridden. It'll be good to get out."

She should have asked him days ago; of course Raoul would give her what she so earnestly sought. "Perfect,” she remarked, and was rewarded with a brilliant smile across the elegant table.

"Camile, what's this?"

A red monstrosity hung over a chair in her room.

"Your riding habit, miss. Madame had it sent over from the Orsay's. You should be about their daughter's size."

She stared at the dress, the skirt’s folds of thick wool pleated together as though the dressmaker designed it specifically to weigh more than her. She squinted at the jacket, a fitted thing with long sleeves and gold buttons. The ridiculous little hat, a play on an old tricorner, would sit precariously on the top of her head.

She had to kick the skirt out when she walked; evidently the Orsay’s daughter was taller than she was, and there was no time to hem it. Raoul stood, a fashion plate for the modern equestrian, his boots shining against fitted breeches and a smart jacket. She envied him.

“Can we switch outfits?” Christine plucked at the heavy, hot garment.

Raoul seemed puzzled. “You look ravishing, my dear,” was his only response. Her hat threatened to fall into her face.

"We're about ready," he said. "Just waiting for the stablehands to tack up and we'll get going in the carriage. I think Adelaide’s going to be late, but no bother."

Christine struggled to understand. "Wait, Adelaide is coming?"

"Oh yes, when I told them our plans all of them insisted on coming. Charlotte and Elise are going to send their stablehands with their horses and arrive here shortly."

"We're not...we're not riding there?" she asked.

"No! We'll take the carriage out to the park, it would be silly to ride through town like this."

"Oh," Christine said.

His brow knit together. "I thought you wanted to go riding? What am I not understanding?"

"I do, it's just..." Things were so different here, in society. To her, a ride was as simple as jumping on her horse, saddled or not, and choosing a direction. This was already exhausting. She walked over to Raya, taking off the red leather gloves to pet her. "It's fine."

When Charlotte finally arrived, well after breakfast, and Adelaide had wrangled both of her brothers and her sister to join them, and everyone had arranged for their horses to be ridden to the park ahead of them, only then did they all pile into the coach and depart. Christine looked at the looming clouds out of the window and tried, vainly, to tune out the inane conversation.

"It's a bit chilly," Charlotte was complaining. "My uncle knows a lovely restaurant. Perhaps we can go after our little ride."

Only when she caught sight of the horses impatiently waiting at the entrance of the park did Christine’s mood lift. Raya did look lovely in her new tack, mane gleaming and tail swishing beneath the cloudy skies. It was as if the storm itself had birthed the mare, so suited to the weather was she.

Christine did not wait for the footman to help her from the carriage, instead leaping down the last few feet and running for her horse. She took the reins from Louis and leapt onto the horse’s back without thinking. Something hard and cold hit the inside of her thigh and she yelped in pain.

Of course. Raya had been given a side saddle.

She could ride side-saddle; she did so at the beginning of each of her shows in her frilly dress. She just didn't care for it recreationally. She had not thought to ask to ride astride, but of course she would not have been expected to. Stablehands procured little stools for the other girls to step onto; brothers and stablehands alike held reins and gloved hands sturdy as the ladies settled uneasily into their own side saddles.

She sighed and swung her leg over so both feet could fit into the left-side stirrups. The thick wool of her habit splayed out over her legs, even as it bunched under her. She pulled at the skirts as best she could, loathe to be the odd one out yet again as Elise and Charlotte preened atop their own geldings.

Of course the boys raced ahead, of course the girls coaxed their horses into a sensible trot, of course she was expected to chit chat as they ambled through the park. The whole thing made her want to scream.

She ignored her father’s voice in her head and urged Raya forward to catch up to the boys.

"Let's race," Bernard yelled to Raoul. Now this was something. Even in this ridiculous get up, it wouldn't be a fair contest. Her stomach fluttered in anticipation of rebellion.

"Let's make it interesting," she called, keeping Raya at an easy trot. They turned, startled, at her approach.

"You aren't afraid of getting your skirts dirty?" Adelaide’s brother Michel sneered.

Christine ignored his insult. "10 francs to the hitching post and back?" She pointed down the length of the park. Behind her, the girls giggled and trotted a little faster to catch up, to offer their support to their favorites. Who would support her?

Raoul was looking at her the same way he had at the circus: concerned, but intrigued. Ladies, Christine guessed, didn’t usually gamble, let alone compete in feats of agility. He had said she was fascinating; well, then, let her fascinate him.

"Deal!" Bernard was already pulling his horse up next to her. Raoul was frowning as he pulled his own young gelding next to Bernard without a word.

“On my mark,” Bernard hollered to the boys. The horses snorted and stepped nervously, bumping into each other. Christine straightened her unsteady hat, her silly sleeves. A little dress was not going to stop her from demolishing these boys in a race. She was too proud for that.

Michel kicked his horse forward without warning. "Go!"

"No fair!" Bernard called, but Christine had seen the boy’s trick coming and urged Raya forward instantly. There had been countless races won under Raya’s fleet-footed gait; now her horse was well-rested, well-fed. They didn’t stand a chance.

The cold air stung her cheeks and she laughed; side-saddle or no, this was what she had missed most in her new life. Here, there were no faux pas or impolite errors to make; she was the best horseman, trained from birth to listen to the beast beneath her and let it guide them to victory.

She and Raya easily outpaced Raoul’s black mount. Raoul glowered when she gave a little wave with her tiny red gloves as she passed him. Far behind, the girls squealed and rooted for the various boys, yelling encouragements. No one cheered for her.

Raya overtook Michel, who tried vainly to swerve towards her in an attempt to startle the horse and rider. Raya leaped out of the way and continued forward. He yelled a choice curse from his own steed; it seemed chivalry ended when competition began. Wind whipped her hair; somewhere, a gust tore the little hat from her head and left it victim to the mud and the thundering hooves behind her.

The hitching post on the far side of the meadow fast approached and Christine dug into the stirrups. It was an old trick, from the circus, to turn on a dime like this – Christine hoped the mare remembered it. Bernard sped past her, not bothering to slow, commanding his horse around the post by clumsy force, costing him precious seconds. Christine had one hand on the reins; as though dancing, Raya pivoted and turned, her belly only inches from the post around which they spun. Behind her, Bernard swore to the Virgin Mary; in front of her, Raoul stared with that same, bewildered expression she kept catching on his face.

She would win. It was obvious. She had beaten them.

It was a simple matter to gallop back, the boys still struggling behind her, yelling and swearing. In front of her, the girls sat on their horses in awe, eyes wide, hands stilled from clapping.

She slowed Raya and easily crossed the imaginary finish line, turning the mare to bask in her victory. The boys galloped back, the riders winded and frustrated, their horses’ breath steaming in the cold afternoon air. Raoul was the only one who gave a game smile, seemingly recovered from his confusion at the post. Christine wondered if she had imagined it.

"Your prize, madame," he pulled a bill from his pocket.

Surely, she had imagined it.

"Thank you sir," she smiled, accepting the bill and tucking it into her dress’ bodice. "Perhaps I will buy you dinner tonight."

The boys "ooh'd" at her insult.

"Where did you get such a horse?" Michel asked, looking at Raya with new appreciation.

"I reared her myself," Christine said, swelling with pride.

"But where did she learn how to race like that? And that turn–" Bernard asked. "That's black magic."

"It's not," Christine frowned. "It's just knowing how to train your horse." Raya snorted, breath steaming. Christine patted her mare’s neck, proud of their performance.

"Anyway," Charlotte declared loudly. "I'm hungry. Shall we go?" The girl was already turning her horse toward the park entrance.

Christine shook her hair; the pins were no match for a hard ride. "Already? But we've only just begun."

Elise gave a laugh. "You really are a strange one, Christine. Let’s go, Charlotte. Raoul?"

Raoul stared at Christine a moment. She wondered if he was unhappy with his fascinating girl. As though answering her question, he urged his horse toward the entrance after Elise. Christine sighed and let Raya follow behind, a slow, boring, loping gait back to the park exit. The banknote fluttered against her collarbone, victory already forgotten in the fog of disappointment.

The race did not come up at dinner; nor did Raoul broach the subject on the carriage ride home. His mother took a look at her unruly hair and noted the missing hat with the same disappointment Christine had seen on her son’s face; they wore it the same way. Her father was already asleep by the time she stumbled up to bed with the keen sense she had made a fatal error, never to recover.

In the dark of her bedroom, the de Chagny’s sharp disappointment pricked at her like stiff straw, stinging her, rendering her incapable of sleep. She tossed, blankets tangling between her legs and trapping her against the mattress. On her nightstand, the franc note mocked her, reminded her of the way the girls stared and whispered on their way back to the carriage; her father would be so disappointed in his great, failed experiment of a daughter. No, she was not a lady. She could never be one. She would only hinder her father’s recovery with her foolish mistakes. Selfish girl.

Even the crickets provoked her to anger, their cheery song chafing against her terrible restlessness. Unable to take it anymore, Christine tore the blankets from her sweaty skin and snuck through the sleeping house and out to the stable. She found the tack room, Raoul's dirty riding pants, waiting for a servant to wash, and his shirt. She hoped he didn't mind as she lifted the heavy saddle onto Raya; knew that he would. Everyone minded everything here. Raya’s eyes went wild a moment, a horse reared in wolf-infested forests who kicked first and asked questions later, but when she saw Christine her eyes settled.

She grumbled a little at the weight of the girl; a week in captivity had accustomed the creature to sloth. Christine rolled her eyes, but dared not utter a word against the mare, lest it threaten her escape before it even began.

Astride, she could finally control the horse the way she wanted. She kept a light touch on the reins, and walked her black-magic horse into the night.

They galloped through the valley, the cool summer night air kissing her skin. She passed through the backs of estates, the only lights the lanterns of the grounds, the only sounds her horse breathing deep and steady. Perros slept easily, and she envied them; her skin prickled with sweat and anticipation; of what, she did not dare put a name to. Raya wove through the tree line, worrying the bit in her mouth and carrying her rider with sure, even steps. She only slowed when they reached the incline of the hills, and, without thinking of her destination, Christine let Raya climb them at her pace, a slow zig-zag up.

Only when they crested the last of the hills did Christine realize where they had drifted.

The circus slept beneath her, lanterns dimmed, fires out, caravans closed, mules snoozing in the paddocks. Raya moved on her own, remembering the route back home. Christine felt a pang of envy; to know home instinctually like that, to never have to second guess.

They loped through the sleeping camp, some dogs lifting their heads at the invaders, but lowering them again when Christine greeted them with her familiar voice, murmuring their names. They both knew the way; she was not surprised to find herself at the stable. Part of her knew she was always going to end up back here some way. She hitched Raya outside.

The scent of brewed tea settled like a warm haze over the usual smell of hay and horses. On the trunk lid, a cup still steaming, a kettle freshly returned from a fire. But no owner of that cup, that kettle.

"Erik?"

No answer.

"I know you're here." The horses stirred at her voice. She shushed Cesar and pulled a sugar cube from the stash on a shelf. "Erik?"

"Go away," the voice said. So he was here. She could not see him among the shadows, not even his eyes.

"Where are you?"

He ignored the question. "I'm leaving. You should too."

"What do you mean you're leaving?"

"I'm not staying with the camp. When they pack up, I'm leaving."

She stared harder into the shadows, to no avail. She spoke to the darkness. "You said you would be here, Erik. I'm coming back at the end of the summer."

"That may be the case," he admitted from somewhere behind her. She turned to where his voice was, but nothing. "But do not choose that on my account. I won't be here."

"What do you mean?"

No answer.

"Answer me."

Silence. She had not thought, when she had come here, that she would get a warm welcome. But this was ridiculous.

"I'll come find you, you can't hide from me," she warned, scouring the tent. She hoped she sounded more confident than she felt.

"Erik?"

No answer.

"Fine. I don't know what you're on about, but you can't get rid of me that easily."

Slowly, she made herself at home, removed her gloves and walked around the stable. Ran her fingers through Cesar’s mane: shockingly tangle-free. Someone was caring well for them. A someone who would not give her the dignity of an audience. Calpurnia nosed her pocket for treats and she relented. She ran a hand over the backs of her horses and waited for Erik to return – disembodied voice or not.

But he didn't, and she was tired. So she pulled Raya into the stable and to the empty stall where she used to sleep and carefully removed the heavy saddle, balancing it on a nearby beam. She grabbed herself a fresh saddle blanket to wrap over her shoulders. She leaned against Erik's mother's trunk and tried, vainly, to keep watch for the phantom in the shadows.

The sun woke her the next morning, the dark edges of her vision evading focus. It was nearly midday and Erik had yet to make an appearance.

Her worry about her horses, her decision, her Erik shifted suddenly, eclipsed by the image of an angry Lady de Chagny and her disappointed father. She scrambled to her feet to find her mare watered, groomed, and aimlessly nosing at a feedbag. Erik was still nowhere to be seen.

"Raya,” she yanked the horse from where she comfortably stood. “Let's go.”

As Erik watched her gallop away at breakneck pace back to town, he hoped he had done the right thing.

Christine wasn't able to ride again for a week; going away parties, end of summer gatherings, and endless social calls filled her days.

On Wednesday, her father stumbled on the stair, unable to catch his breath, and she sat with him in his room all day, sending her regrets to all her previous engagements. She was content to chat with him about all the comings and goings in this strange holiday from the normal, and he listened quietly.

Again, he asked her if she was happy. Again, she lied. Yes, she was happy.

"Christine, I need you to do something for me," he cleared his throat, a horrible, rattling, wet sound from his core. Christine had to hide her wince; it was terrible to hear. She would not think about how it had gotten so much worse. She traced the patterns in the quilt beneath her, did not look at the thin legs under the covers next to her.

"You can ask something of me, but I might not agree...how about that?"

He smiled, but there was no mirth in his tired eyes. "Christine..." His voice was hoarse, a whisper, but an admonishment nonetheless. How long had it been since he had been well? Christine could no longer clearly picture her father fit, playing his violin; it seemed as though he had always been this thin, this exhausted. Her mouth tasted like metal, and she wished very much to be anywhere but here.

"I'm sorry, Papa. What do you have to tell me?"

"Christine, you are a smart girl."

"I'd like to think so," she joked, a last attempt to wrangle the seriousness of the conversation back to something silly, something that wouldn't end in horror.

"You've picked up how this world works, so well," he smiled softly. "Madame de Chagny loves you."

"I'm glad to hear it."

"I wonder," he paused, considering his words carefully. "I wonder if you might care to stay here."

Christine blinked a few times. "What? Why would I do that?"

Her father shifted on his pillows. "Well, you seem to like it here, and you're happy..."

"Yes, as a vacation," Christine said, body tense on the mattress. "What's all this about?"

"Christine," her father sighed. He tried to sit up taller. "I just want to see you happy."

"I am happy, Papa!" she insisted. "I'm happy being with you, and with our life at the circus. Which is where we will go back to so soon! When the de Chagnys leave for Paris, we can go home!"

Gustave paused. His face had the pallor of one in extreme heat, though the room was seasonably cool. "I'm not going back to the circus, Christine."

"What?" Christine frowned. "What are you talking about?"

"Christine," his tone was a warning. Words never said, but understood. Suddenly, she needed to hear them.

"What, Papa?"

"I'm sick, Christine."

The knowledge sat between them on the quilt, heavy and spoken. She wished she had never entered this musty room.

"You're not."

He wheezed. "I am. I have been, for a while now."

Her vision blurred. She heard herself ask. "How sick?"

"I don't know, Christine," he said. He was grey skin and brittle bone; it couldn't be long now if he had been driven to acknowledge it. She remembered his red face, gasping for air on the staircase; the way Raoul seemed three times larger in comparison. The way Raoul helped lift him the last few steps to the room; the way her father had carried her on his back just a few short years ago.

Her father reached for her hand. "I want you to stay with me, Christine. And when I'm gone, I want your future to be secure."

She had to move, had to stand. She paced to the window, her skin ice cold, her heart racing. That tangy metal taste was back in her mouth, and she realized she had bitten the inside of her cheek so hard it was bleeding. Blood, proof of her own vitality; vitality her father was running out of, fast.

"Secure," she repeated. "What – what do you mean? I want to be with you! I want to stay here with you."

"I'm glad, my dear child. But when I'm no longer here, the world will be a very different place for you."

"I can work at the circus, I can earn a living–"

"I know, I know you can, my dear," he took a long, painstaking breath. "But you shouldn't have to."

"What?"

"Stay here, stay with the de Chagnys. They already care for you like a daughter — you could make that so."

Christine's head spun. "But you're my family, I want to stay with you!"

Gustave flushed, as though the exertion of the conversation was too much. "Christine, all my life I have regretted not being able to do more for you. To give you a proper life. A safe one. Now, you have a chance to live more comfortably than the life I could give you."

"But I don't want that." She could feel the hot tears on her cold face.

He seemed determined to finish the argument; sweat shone on his forehead. "Maybe not now, but just think, Christine. What kind of lives do the circus folk have? It's fun and games until you are old, or sick, or get hurt and cannot perform. What if you want to have a family one day? Are you going to carry a swaddling child on horseback through the country in winter? Have to watch your child, forced to perform, falling from some trapeze, or tightrope, or horse. It killed me to see you on the ground that night, bleeding, in agony, and I couldn't do anything to soothe you. Here, you can raise a family, have a home to call your own, always know where your next meal will be. Please, Christine. See reason."

She crossed the room; he lunged for her and she let him, forcing down the revulsion in her throat. She hated the death grip his bony hands had on her, the pleading in his eyes. The life she had known was shattered in front of her like some old vase, and she knew even if she could find all the pieces it would never be the same – too much had been exposed, too much had passed between her old life and new.

"I – I can't, Papa, I'm sorry!" She tore her hand from her father's and dashed out the door, ignoring his calls behind her.

Chapter Text

He did not know how far he walked along the beach. They would need him soon, for work, but he didn’t care. He needed to clear his head.

The sea was grey; the sky matched. There would be early fall rain soon. The aristocrats would leave, their time to play in the sea over and they would go back to their stuffy gilded mansions. Where would she go? It was a thought that plagued him more than he cared to admit.

He had tried to stay away, tried to heed what the old man had said when he had come down to the circus, alone, that day. He had hardly recognized him when he had come into the stable. Gone was the rugged fiddler with the rosy cheeks, replaced by a fellow skeleton, all sharp edges and sunken hollows. They were not so dissimilar; but Gustave Daae was dying, and Erik was stubbornly alive, a celestial joke that he didn't care to be a part of.

Christine’s father had come into the stable, had come looking for him. He had caught Erik off guard. He was cleaning tack that hadn't been used since Christine left and was stooped over his work; maybe that was how the man was able to surprise him, grabbing him by the arm and shoving him up against one of the tent posts.

"Whatever you're doing, stop it, boy," the man panted, snarling his words. Erik held up his hands, refusing to fight back against him.

"I don't know what you mean."

"Bullshit," Gustave snapped. "I saw the horse. You think it got to the house on its own? I know what you're doing. I know you came by the other night. She's not coming back."

Erik forced a laugh, though the man's forearm was against his larynx. "I'm not sure that's your choice to make." He could now see, too easily, how to unbalance the man, to get out of the hold.

Gustave released him before he had to do anything. "You're right. It's not my choice to make." His eyes flashed at him. "But it's not yours either."

"I think that's a matter of opinion," Erik said. Gustave was fighting to catch his breath, the tendons of his neck working as he struggled to pull in air. It must be something about his chest, his lungs. Erik was not a doctor, but he had seen enough consumption in his time on the road. He pulled over a stool for the man, and he sat without thanks. The initial threat had been administered, and the old man grew weary.

"Erik, have you always been in the circus?" Gustave asked, hands on his knees.

Erik leaned back on the very post he had just been choked against. "No, sir. I used to live with my mother in Rouen, until I was ten."

Gustave nodded. "If you had to choose the circus life, or a life in one place, which would you choose?"

Erik took a deep breath. "Neither, I think."

"And what do you mean by that?" Gustave asked.

"Life in a small town, when you look like this..." Erik trailed off. "But here, I've known life in a cage, have had to work under someone..." He tilted his head considering. "I want to be my own man, make my own rules."

"In the circus? Surely…”

"Sir, with all due respect, with a face like mine there is little choice. I will never have a home in a respectable community, a wife I can take out on Sundays." Erik turned back to his tack. He wasn’t the one dying, but he suddenly felt too vulnerable. What did Gustave want? "Did you come here just to mock me, sir? Or was there something else?"

Gustave shook his head, but did not elaborate. Erik hung the tack onto the wall, but did not continue cleaning.

"Can I ask you something, then?" Erik said, avoiding his eye. Gustave nodded. "You could have had a house, and Chr – your daughter seems to be doing quite well among all those fancy people. Why did you choose the circus? If you had this other option?" Why did you torture a thirsty man with the hope of water if you were going to give him drought in the end?

Gustave sighed. "I'm not quite sure myself. I once played for kings and queens, traveled and made quite a good amount doing so. Christine’s mother wasn’t…life on the road was not for ladies like her. She insisted we settle down. I resented it, and when she died I – couldn't be there, in the place where she had died. Couldn't stand the suffocating feeling of all those people who knew us, and knew what happened. And I knew I loved performing, and traveling. And Christine seemed to like it. But if I had to do it again, I would tell myself to deal with the suffocating feeling, because it would keep my daughter safe. From injury, and hurt…"

"And me," Erik said grimly.

Gustave let out a surprised chuckle. "You give yourself too much credit, son. She cares about you, but I'm sure if it wasn't you she would have found another way to get under my skin."

Erik bristled. "I'm not sure she would agree."

Gustave nodded, sighing. "I can't say for certain. But I know you care for her."

"I do."

"And, if I'm guessing right, you want the best for her."

"Yes."

"Then you know the circus isn't the safest place for her."

Erik paced away from the man. Gustave had to catch his breath a moment before he continued.

"You were there, that night she fell off the horse. You heard her screaming through the night."

"I did," Erik said, his voice suddenly thick. No matter what she said, he had done that to her, without so much as a thought. Had permanently scarred her. Had caused her pain.

"How many times will she perform before that happens again? A hundred? Or maybe only once more…will she fall and never get up, next time? Will she be so lucky to die quickly, when it happens? Or will she waste away like her mother?" Like you, Erik filled in the unspoken part in his mind. The man shook when he spoke, pressed a handkerchief to his pale lips.

Erik's stomach soured.

"She could have a good life, with beautiful things. She could have an easier life than we will ever have, Erik. Don't you want that for her?"

Gustave was right, of course he was right. Erik had always known this would have an end date. The skeleton and the acrobat…it was the beginning of a joke, not a love story. Unable to speak, he nodded at the man.

"Then help me," the man begged. "One wish from a dying man. Don't let her come back here."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Erik asked.

Gustave rose on shaky legs.

"Let her go."

Gustave Daae's words rang in his ears as Erik crossed the hard, packed sand of the beach. At high tide, it would be underwater; now, the sandbar let him cross the distance quickly, efficiently.

He saw the mare first; a grey silhouette against a grey sky. The horse lifted her head at his approach and whickered.

She sat in the sand, inches from the creeping, slow waves lapping the shore. He wondered if she would move when the tide began to come in. No, probably not. She was stubborn that way.

He said nothing, but stepped gently next to her and sat, like her, cross legged in the sand, the cold from the sand seeping through his trousers and into his bones.

She looked down at the wet sand, tracing a pattern with her finger.

Erik waited for her to tell him to fuck off, or scream, or to just get up and leave. He didn't expect the question from her lips.

"How did you do it?" she said. "How did you," she took a breath, like the question was a weight pulling her down to some great depth. "How did you keep going, when you realized your mother was gone?"

The air rushed from his lungs. His mind screamed run, this was an ambush of emotions he couldn't quite name, he couldn't talk about this, not now, not ever. But this was Christine, and she was looking at him more gravely than she ever had before, and he had just seen her father, ashen and making his last request, using what must be his last strength to keep his daughter safe. And he knew he had to answer, for her.

Let her go.

"I didn't, for a while," he admitted, not looking at her but at the waves. It was a little easier, that way, to pretend she wasn't hanging on his words for a scrap of guidance. He wasn't sure he was qualified for that, exactly. "You saw me then." He gave a grim smile. "I wanted to burn down the world and take everyone with me." Even you, he thought, remembering how dark his thoughts were in those first weeks.

"Did that help?"

"No,” he admitted. “It just delayed the inevitable."

She made a questioning noise. He kept his eyes trained on the sea.

"The bone-crushing grief, the inescapable dullness of it. The feeling of wading out into these waves and breathing in, all the time, except you're still fucking...alive for every moment. I mean sure, you can consider not...being alive, that is...but those thoughts only make it hurt more, because now there's guilt."

He had handfuls of wet sand in a vise grip, his fingers deep into the sandbar in hopes it would anchor him.

"And then one day, you have some horrible little girl screaming at you through the fog of it all to muck stalls, and you feel like you just want to scream back at her, but you don't, and you get to stop because that's it, you're feeling something that isn't just the numbness, and that's progress, isn't it?"

He looked over at her. The wind caught her hair, stuck to her damp cheeks.

Christine gave a little smile. "Sorry."

He let himself smile a little back. "And then, in all that pain, you find yourself laughing because she's laughing, and how can you be laughing when your mother's gone, someone's dead and you're alive and laughing, but beyond the shame there's some glimmer that there will be times when you are okay, and that you will survive this."

He felt her hand on the top of his, sandy and cold, and a curly haired head against his bony shoulder.

"Thanks," she sniffled. He could have asked if she was okay, or what the matter was, but he knew, didn't he? And he was suddenly weary of words.

They sat in silence, the only interruption the sounds of the gulls calling to each other high above, and the waves rolling over each other, constant and churning. Erik kept his hands on the sand, unsure that if he were to move it would break the spell, and she would disappear again.

"I just feel like everything's ending," Christine murmured. "I'm not ready for it."

"I don't think most people are," Erik said.

"Will you stay with me when it does?" she asked, her voice very small.

He considered the realistic answer, the cautious answer. All those answers she couldn't hear right now. So he let his jagged cheek lean against the top of her head and said "yes."

--

Gustave Daae did not leave his bed after his fall on Wednesday. A nervous quiet fell over the house in those days. Even Madame de Chagny was more subdued, canceling her plans with the few families left in town and staying quiet indoors. They spent their days reading, picking uselessly at needlework. The piano sat untouched. Raoul went out of his way to bring her tea cakes and treats from the bakery she liked, but she turned those away. She spent her time in the stable, but she didn't dare ride. It wouldn't be right to seek such joy, already feeling the pall that Erik spoke of circling her like some vulture. Her hours in the stable were the only way she could escape the worried glances from the de Chagnys, the pitying looks of visitors.

"Let her, Raoul," she heard Madame de Chagny say over her son's shoulder as he watched her walk to the stables for the umpteenth time. "She's already grieving."

Christine clutched her book to her chest. The weather had turned again, back to intermittent rain, but she didn't mind.

"You weren't kidding about these people!" A dark voice from the shadows of the stable made her smile – the shame soon followed, and she scowled.

Erik knocked on the solid wood of the wall. "Impressive. These horses live better than I do." He wore his black mask; the trip to town never guaranteed he wouldn't be seen, he had explained. Better to leave some things a mystery. "Careful Raya doesn't get fancy airs."

Christine gave a small smile. "Hello to you too." She handed him the book, borrowed from the de Chagny library. "I brought you a new one."

He handed her back the two others she had brought the day before.

"How did you read those both yesterday?" Christine's eyes widened. "I thought almost certainly –"

"I'm a quick study," he said.

Christine could feel the veil of grief lift slightly as she rolled her eyes at his arrogance. He had kept his promise to stay with her, and he was the only person not treating her like live ammunition. She didn't realize how much she needed that.

They stayed outside in the stable even as the rain fell. Erik read passages that he thought she would like, even doing voices for the characters that Christine had to admit were spot-on. She groomed Raya, showed Erik the new tack and brushes the de Chagnys had paid exorbitantly for. She laughed when she couldn't find the currycomb; Erik waved his hands, in full magician pose, to reveal in his clutches the missing brush.

"Don't steal from them!" Christine giggled in a hushed whisper, snatching it from him. "They're very nice!"

"I'm sure they are," he snorted. "But would they notice a few missing bridles? I think Cal needs a new one."

"She loves you!" Christine noted. "At the show, at least. I'm surprised she didn't follow you here!"

Erik theatrically looked back towards the entrance. "How can you be sure she didn't?"

Christine couldn't hide her smile. "I forgot how ridiculous you are, Erik."

They chatted through the afternoon, the rain coming down in drips, then buckets, then drips again, as if the heavens were uncertain as to how much to drench the coastline. She asked about his investigation; he filled her in. He hadn't been back to the caravan to pick Firmin's desk lock; Marguerite knew more than she let on, perhaps she saw something that fateful night.

"She's shrewd," Christine nodded. "She hasn’t been working at the circus this long without knowing when to be quiet."

"Maybe so," Erik commented. "Maybe..." he trailed off.

"What?"

"It's nothing."

"Erik." She stopped brushing Raya's back.

"Maybe, only if you're up for it..."

"Oh, not you too," Christine winced. "My father is the sick one, not me. Everyone's walking around me like I'm some precious vase they don't want to risk breaking."

"Fine," Erik covered his concern with a sardonic eye roll. "Maybe you could speak with her. When you have a chance. She might tell you more than she would tell me."

"Fine," Christine said. "I'll go down there tomorrow."

"If your busy schedule allows, your majesty," Erik joked back, flipping through the book she picked up for him. "Now where were we –"

Christine, from her standing position, listened to the melodic sound of Erik reading aloud and found herself lost in the rhythmic brushing of her horse. Only when boots on gravel and steps in puddles sounded did she remember herself.

Raoul was hastening towards her from the big house, ducking his head as the rain fell, threatening a deluge.

"Erik," she hissed, but he was already gone, hidden in the shadows. She came out from Raya's stall.

"Raoul–" she saw the expression on his face, and any temporary mirth from a mindless day away from the house evaporated. Her stomach plummeted in her body. "Oh," was all she could manage.

"The doctors think it's time," Raoul said. "I'll come with you."

Christine could only nod. She cast a sidelong glance back at the shadows, but there was no one there.

The hallway was lined with house staff, who stepped aside to make way for her. Madame de Chagny hung her head in prayer seated on a small chair outside her father’s door. It was all Christine could do to walk stiffly forward, Raoul’s hand on her back urging her into the dark room.

The air hung heavy; smoke was prescribed to ease the cough, herbs burnt to open the airways. It made the bedroom hazy, and Christine felt as if she was in a familiar nightmare, unable to make out what was right in front of her, but knowing all the same it was malevolent. Raoul stayed in the doorway, and she walked alone to the thin man in the bed.

On the other side, the priest delivered the last rites. In her father's icy hands, his rosary sat, unfelt. Christine knelt at the bedside.

"He is no longer in pain, my child," the priest said, and Christine stared back in disbelief. Surely – she touched his hand, waxy and cold.

She shook her head. "No, you're wrong." She must have been shouting, but her father didn't move. He hated when she shouted, when she acted as she shouldn't. He needed to tell her to be still, be quiet, be good. But he lay there, motionless and ashen in the dark. "He's not dead!" She stood now, making a scene he would hate, anything to make him get up. "He's not! No!"

Raoul stepped forward, reaching for her. She pushed him away, still yelling at the priest, still staring at her father's body, unmoving. "Tell him Raoul, tell him he's wrong!" she shouted as the boy pulled her to him. "Tell him!" She struggled against his arms, but he didn't let go.

"Please! Please," she protested, but he wouldn't let go, and everything was over, and her world was ending and no one was doing anything about it, and she was crying and screaming even though she had no breath left in her lungs, and Raoul's shirt was soaking wet and her face hurt and her chest hurt and everything hurt. She wanted to collapse but Raoul's arms held her up and she cried.

In the pouring rain, the sky dark, another boy looked up at the single lantern in Gustave Daae's window. In the rain, no one could see him crying, could know that he was crying for himself, knowing that he lived in a world where he could not stand in his family's big house and hold Christine and tell her it would be ok. That he lived in a world where he would have to leave that to another boy, that there would always be another boy who could be what he couldn't for her. And he cried for the old man, his wishes for his daughter so much like his own wishes for her. He cried for the knowledge that the old man was right. That if he truly loved her, he would have to let her go.

So he turned from the window and retreated into the night.

Chapter Text

The August storm lifted and skies cleared. Those still in Perros took advantage of the lingering beach days, celebrating the good fortune and warm weather.

At the de Chagny house, preparations were made for a hasty burial and funeral. The temperature, and the family's plans to soon return to Paris for the fall, gave them good reason to hurry. Christine sat and watched, abstracted, when her father's body was moved from the house, as leaves were put into tables to expand them for expected guests, awnings put up to signal to the rest of the town that the dead lingered here. The family put on their mourning clothes. Christine's was a dress belonging to Raoul's mother, hastily tailored to her measurements, an itchy old thing that was several years out of date. She didn't care. The family apologized anyway.

The church service was well attended, considering how few families were left in town at the end of the season. Madame de Chagny was quite disturbed at the outpouring; behind the last pews, all full of acceptable parishioners, stood further mourners, packed together from wall to wall. The well-to-do society families in their designated rows continued to steal scandalized glances at the gathered rabble behind.

In the front, next to the casket, Christine sat alone in her borrowed clothes, and heard the commotion. Only when she felt a touch on her shoulder did she look from her clasped hands.

Marguerite, for all the world in her Sunday best, complete with a netted mourning veil to obscure her beard the best she could, sat next to her and gestured behind her.

Christine turned. Behind the wealthy families, all of the circus members stood, hats in hand, some in proper mourning black and some in the only clothes they owned, bowing their heads in respect. Christine covered her mouth with her hands, sure if she moved them she would begin to sob and never stop.

Everyone from Joseph Buquet to Mister Firmin was there, regardless of any differences of religion or beliefs. From the lectern, the priest acknowledged the many friends of Gustave Daae with some hesitation, and Christine felt a bubble of laughter break through her grief, a silly, ridiculous thing. The circus was here, in this house of God...she laughed again, and the priest frowned down at her from the altar.

Marguerite pulled her into a hug in the pew. "Quiet, girl," she said, but she was laughing, the ridiculous laugh contagious. They both covered their mouths with their hands, vibrating from the laughter threatening to spill out.

"Really!" hissed a society woman from behind them. "Have some respect."

That only made the scene more absurd, and Christine couldn't hold back the giggles anymore and let them spill over. Marguerite joined, hysterical. The priest sternly continued his homily over the noise.

Only when their laughter faded did Christine steal another look over her shoulder, searching the shadows of the church. One masked man was, on her tear-filled and frantic glance, missing. Her chest went all hollow and cold again. Where was he? Why hadn’t he come? Didn’t he know she needed him, today, here, desperately? But the shadows did not move in the crowded church, and he was not there. Marguerite tapped her hand and redirected her attention back to the front of the church.

Gustave Daae was interred next to her mother in a modest part of the cemetery near the treeline. Madame de Chagny took one final imperious look at the odd guests before letting Christine know the carriage would be waiting at the cemetery entrance.

Finally alone, Marguerite lifted her veil and pulled Christine into a proper hug. "Oh, my darling girl."

"Oh, Marguerite." She let herself melt into the soft, maternal embrace. She could smell Marguerite's cigarettes on her clothes, the rose water on her skin. It smelled like home.

"Your father loved you very much," she said. "So much."

Christine breathed, the grief a suffocating wave. She had endured horrible physical pain before; but this was somehow worse. "Marguerite, Marguerite, what am I going to do now?"

"Oh Christine," Marguerite pulled back. "You've just got to keep living, for him. He would want you to."

Christine sighed, wiping at her tears. They had a mind of their own, now, and wouldn’t stop for anything. "He didn't want me to go back to the circus."

Marguerite nodded, expression somber. "I know. I can't say I disagree with him. It's a hard life, Christine."

"I know," she frowned. “But –” she suddenly grew tired of fighting, of thinking. She wanted to take a long nap in Marguerite’s caravan, and wake up to find this all a terrible dream.

Marguerite held her more tightly. "You will always have us as your family, Christine. You know that. But I think the world has bigger plans for you than our little slice of the world."

Christine pulled back to see Marguerite watching someone behind her. Raoul stood, kicking at a rock with his shoe a few yards away. Waiting for her.

That reminded her of the one face she had yet to see.

"Where is Erik? I thought everyone had come –"

"No one's seen him since last night. But I'm sure he will turn up before you leave."

"Leave?"

"Leave with that family, Christine," Marguerite said, eyes glistening and sure. "It's what he wanted."

Marguerite released her and, taking a final look at Gustave’s burial plot, turned and headed towards the group of circus members waiting for her.

Christine watched her go, and joined Raoul without a word.

Despite Christine’s own stasis, the seasons did not stop changing, and summer disappeared into September without her permission. It was still warm, no one would argue that, but there was a chill in the last days before the de Chagnys packed up their summer home and returned to the estate in Paris for the rest of the year.

Christine sat, a book open in her lap. She read the words, she comprehended their meaning, but if someone were to ask what the book was about, she would have no recollection. Time moved sickeningly fast, yet she had no memory of it passing. Her thoughts came in meandering fog. She kept time by her father's funeral – five hours ago, eight days, two weeks. Four black crepe dresses that crinkled when she walked.

She found solace in the daily chores of a horse owner. She slept little, waking with the dawn. She nodded to the stablehands, who now understood Raya was her responsibility and hers only. She seldom returned to the house for lunch. While the others ate, she fed her horse; she had little appetite, especially when the dining table had an empty place. They had taken away her father's chair and place setting, of course, but the space, just slightly too far apart between Raoul and his father, made her ill.

She ached, the passing days blurring between time at the stable and time in the sitting room. People tiptoed around her. Only Raoul greeted her with a smile that didn't seem laced with pity. Only he asked her if she wanted to go riding. Only he sat with her, a newspaper on his knee, in comfortable silence. She didn't mind it.

One day, as the last trunks were being packed, Christine’s blurry focus was broken by an overheard piece of conversation. She sat, her weak attempt at needlepoint untouched in her lap, and tried not to interrupt the cheerful chat Madame de Chagny was having with her friend.

"Guillaume was begging Luc to go to the circus again," Lady Bardot was saying, rolling her eyes about her grandson. Christine had noted how pinched Madame de Chagny’s face grew: the Bardot woman had her daughters married off and they’d already given her grandchildren and her life had never been more full. According to her, the young boy had attended the circus almost a dozen times since they had arrived.

"But they were already gone! The whole fairground is empty."

Christine’s stomach dropped. "Excuse me?"

The women looked up, surprised. "Ah, so the sad little statue speaks!" Lady Bardot proclaimed.

"What did you say? The circus is gone?" Christine repeated, ignoring the woman's barb.

"Yes, I saw it myself yesterday."

Yesterday. She felt like a statue indeed.

"Please, excuse me," she said, not waiting for an answer. She dashed from the parlor and out to the stables.

She wasted no time with the heavy saddle, instead pulling herself onto the horse’s bare back with her skirts billowing behind her. Unfastening Raya from the lead ropes, she held onto a clump of mane and dug her heels in, urging her forward.

"Please, hurry girl," she said, half crazed. Gone, gone...of course the circus traveled, of course they would leave, of course...

Raya raced up and down the hills separating the town and the fairgrounds. Christine's jaw hurt from gritting her teeth. No no no...she had already lost her father, now this? Why hadn’t they told her?

Raya climbed up the crest of the last hill. Christine could already picture the big red tents below, the signs; almost smell the campfires and livestock; hear people laughing as they wound their way to the big top and the sideshow. By the stables and corral maybe she would even see a slender man tending to the horses, his shadow a little sorrel mare. Yes, that was what she would see…

A sob came out of her throat as Raya crested the hill, a horrible, retching sound from her chest.

The fairground was deserted. The only hint that the big top had ever been there was the tamped earth in the general shapes of the structures long since disassembled.

She urged Raya down the hill and they walked, surveying the ghost town. The ticket booth, where she had so feared she would be recognized, was gone. The food carts, their exotic and tantalizing smells, all packed away and taken. She walked Raya right through the flattened grass of the freak show tent and could still see where the cages had sat.

She turned her horse east and continued their slow procession. The stable area was deserted, scant hay the only thing left. The fence still stood, the paddock some leftover enclosure they had been able to take advantage of.

She dismounted and scoured the area, eyes sharp, searching for any trace of them. Of him.

Nothing.

She fell to her knees. She had lost her father, now this...her family gone in every sense of the word, scattered away like the wind. Cesar, Calpurnia, Amber, the last piece of her father, their horses, gone. What would happen to them?

The familiar choking hysteria bubbled up. What if something happened when she wasn't there? What if one of them got hurt? Without her, what would the circus do with them? Would they be auctioned off, useless without their rider, cast to the wind? Would whoever bought Calpurnia know she can't sleep alone, that she's afraid to? Would Cesar one day bite the wrong hand and face the whip? Would Amber’s new rider strike her as her father never did? How could she have let this happen? How could she have neglected them so long? She was a terrible owner, she deserved this, to lose them. She cried bitter tears into the damp earth.

It was nearly nightfall when she returned in her borrowed dress to a house of strangers, numb to everything.

"Christine," Raoul asked. Long prior, she had begged him not to ask her if she was alright. But the unasked question still hung. "Have you eaten?"

She shook her head and he helped her lead Raya to the stable before bringing Christine into the dining room. Dinner had already been served and cleared away, but he asked a servant to make her a plate. She dutifully sat and ate, the roll and meat tasting like sawdust in her mouth, but she ate.

"We leave tomorrow," he said. She nodded, digging deep for her scrap of manners. "We'd – I would like it very much if you would come with me. Us. To Paris."

Old Christine, lively Christine, would have given a wry smile and pointed out that the bold vicomte seemed nervous. But the joke evaded her. Instead, she pictured the alternative; the empty fairground, her friends out of reach. Alone in a town of ghosts.

Part of her considered saying no, staying behind, camping under the stars town to town with Raya, chasing shadows until she found her circus again. Life would be hard, but she knew hard living.

On the other hand, her father did not want her living hand to mouth, foraging for edible plants on the roadside, picking nettles from her hair. Her father wanted her to be happy. Wanted her to have a chance at a normal life. Hadn’t he gone through the trouble of reconnecting with old friends, sending her to buy new clothes, letting her meet new people, for her to stay? And she had Raoul, all thoughtfulness and smiles and listening. She wondered, idly, if she were to strike up an argument if he would even respond. If it was in his blood to agree only, to be amenable.

Her circus was already days away from her. Erik – Erik hadn't been there. Hadn't even bothered to show. Hadn't bothered to warn her that they were leaving, hadn't even asked if she wanted to come.

So she turned to Raoul and gave her best performer smile, tempered with grief and exhaustion and indecision, and said "Yes, I would like that very much."

The next morning, Christine wanted to ride Raya to Paris, but Madame's eyebrows nearly shot off her head at the request. The horses, Madame informed her, would be driven by stablehands back to the city, where they would be boarded in their stables. Christine gave her grey mare a big kiss on the nose and said a silent prayer to whoever would listen to keep her only friend safe. She closed her eyes in the big carriage and refused to take a final look at the house where her father died.

Paris was all smoke and noise, a jarring departure from Perros. But soon, the carriage turned out of the city center and everything opened up. Estates with wide, tall gates and intricate ironwork lined the streets, until finally they turned into the long driveway leading to the Chagny ancestral home. It was a golden building, three stories with a fountain on the front lawn, something out of the age of kings and queens. Christine couldn't help but be in awe of the building, of the staff lined up in a neat row in front of the house, and she was cognizant of Raoul's excitement to show her all of his favorite places.

Her mind, blurred by grief, found there was a certain solace in staying busy. And so busy Christine stayed as fall persisted, harsh and chill across the city. She was fitted for new dresses, she took tea with all of the family friends with apparent pleasure, she went to galleries. She took up drawing, archery, and knitting. She worked on her needlepoint. Raoul sat next to her at the piano and helped her with his incorrigible optimism as she plunked out simple Mozart tunes with a heavy hand. She rode through the park with Raya, who acclimated to aristocratic life by promptly getting fat. Christine was glad at least one of them was enjoying themselves; she hadn't quite gained her appetite back, though she ate every meal as though instructed to.

October’s end was quite cold indeed. In her new coat and kid gloves, she and Raoul rode Raya and his handsome black gelding through the park.

"I think, Miss Daae, we are the only people in the park today." Raoul laughed, a sound that indicated he was genuinely delighted.

She gave a soft smile. "As if you need further proof I am odd, sir."

"I would never call you odd, Christine. It's what I love most about you, the way you surprise me every day."

Christine blinked at the word. Love. It wasn't a surprise. Charlotte had just gotten engaged, Elise had sent invitations for her wedding next month. It seemed every eligible lord and lady in Paris was susceptible to such amorous sentiments. Raoul had spoken such flirtations before; when she played a wrong note, he "loved it, as I you." When she asked him to ride with her, "always." She had come to respond with a quiet smile, or a nod.

Raoul grew very somber, slowing his horse to a stop. "Christine, it has been so wonderful getting to know you these past few months–”

"I'll race you back!" she said, cutting him off with quick words. She kicked Raya and galloped off; he would have no chance of catching her.

If she only barely avoided the subject in autumn, Christmas in Paris was a minefield of love. They attended Elise's wedding to Bernard together. Christine dodged the questions about their own intentions with what she hoped was grace. If she was being honest, she wasn't sure what her answer would be if he asked. Some nights, on those very difficult nights when she felt her grief would split her open, she wished for another person to share some of the pain with. Other times, she found herself wishing for a very different life indeed, for a different person's love shining brightly from yellow eyes.

But that person was gone, and it had been months. Her only attempt to find her circus was each afternoon; after Raoul's father finished with the paper, and Raoul had skimmed the sports section, she would steal the paper away. At first, she looked for advertisements for the circus, but then she began to look for horse auctions, and even skimmed the crime report for mentions of any skeletal men. She wasn't sure why she considered that, but she read the paper regardless, everyday, her own ritual more precious to her than even weekly mass.

Christmas season meant more church services, more visits to relatives, more friends to entertain. She wasn't sure when it happened, but her paper stealing slowed to only once or twice a week, until it slipped to once, if she could manage.

After Christmas Eve service, Raoul asked her to take a walk. Though she had a feeling where it would lead, she found herself following him.

The night sky was brilliant with stars, a rare sight in the city. She watched them, remembering a very different night with very different stars above her. But that boy was gone, and that girl was, too.

So when Raoul asked her to marry him, she said she would.

If keeping busy helped, then wedding planning was a thick coat of paint on the walls of her grief. Christine didn't want to know what was underneath, or what would happen the day she slowed her breakneck pace to the altar, and she didn't have to, for now; January and February were packed with dress fittings, with visits with the priest, with menu planning, guest list creation. Madame de Chagny spent hours integrating Raoul’s new fiancé into her tight knit group of aristocratic friends. Christine fantasized, more than once, about revealing her unsavory past to them; but then she remembered that she was alone in the world, and these people had shown her only kindness, and that her father wanted her happy. She dared not stop now.

March came in like a lion, storming everyday. There was only a week before the wedding and preparations made the enormous house seem tiny and cramped, packed with visitors and additional servants alike. Christine's mind hummed with overstimulation; she could barely remember anything anymore about which fork was for which, what cake they had ordered for the reception. Raoul seemed to come and go; his father dragged him to various business dealings, lunches and dinners with investors, his own wedding suit fittings. More than once, Christine came home from a social visit to see Raoul leaving through the same door she just entered on his way out to his own appointment.

It was on a rare reprieve after dinner one night that they found themselves alone on the sofa. Christine shivered. She could count the number of times they had been alone since their engagement on one hand, including now.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

"Good." She lied easily now.

"You know," he said, quietly. "I never told them about you."

This broke her out of her torpor. "What?"

"About what you told me. About working at the circus," he smiled. "Mother doesn't know."

He leaned back, proud, as if expecting praise. She should be grateful he had never disclosed her tearful confession to his mother; why, then, was she filled with sudden dread?

"Oh," she managed. She wasn't sure what made her say, "Why?"

This made Raoul turn his head. "Oh, because," he paused, his manners catching up with his thoughts. The crushing feeling in her stomach got worse. She couldn't help but fill in the unspoken words: because it's embarrassing, because I would never be able to marry you if it got out, because we aren't the same.

"Because I'm not good enough for you?" she said.

Raoul rushed for her hand, and it took everything in her not to wince away. "No, no, Christine, of course not. Where is this coming from?"

She looked him in the eye. "Then you should tell them.”

Raoul scrambled for the words. They came out in a mangled jumble of apologies, excuses. She shook her head at him.

"Or not, I don't care. I'm headed to bed."

"Christine!" he called after her. She turned.

He looked pitiful; but always handsome, even leaning across the couch as though to catch a last glimpse of her on the stair. She was reminded of a loyal dog, waiting for its master. He searched her face. "Are we alright?"

"Yes, Raoul," she sighed. "We're fine."

He gave a smile. "I'll see you at the cathedral?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'll be the one in white."

"Got it,” he winked, and she giggled. “Goodnight, Christine."

She stumbled to bed, her mind more troubled than she could admit to her fiancé, or even herself.

She moved through this world a ghost, some phantom presence only barely acknowledged in the planning of the wedding. Rarely was she included in the conversations Raoul's mother dragged her to, much less often was she asked a direct question by anyone at mealtimes or in leisure. More and more, the only interaction she had with the others were commands: come with me, get out of the stables, wear this. No, Raoul is not coming with us, no, you cannot have seconds, no, violets are not practical for centerpieces. And she, exhausted by grief, did not argue.

At night, she dreamt she was real, a corporeal being, center stage. She dreamt of Raya, and Cesar, and her horses dancing beneath her, listening to her every instruction, following her every move. She remembered the delicious attention of the crowd, the applause. She even recalled with fondness the pain of falling, of slipping off the saddle over and over when trying a new trick.

The way she felt watched and protected by the careful figure holding the lead line in the ring.

How long had it been since she felt like herself?

The next morning, she borrowed the paper before Raoul had even had his turn. If he noticed, he didn't say anything; he was being kind to her after their argument last night.

She knew what she was looking for, falling into her pattern of skimming the ads, the upcoming events in town, the articles. The help wanted, the crime report. The tiny type blurred as she rushed through it.

"Seriously, Christine, I don't need it yet, you can read it if you want to," Raoul laughed over breakfast. Christine ignored him.

There, clear as day.

"Two weeks only, Clamart fairgrounds, Monsieur Firmin presents a circus of oddities and delights."

This was it.

"Where are the Clamart fairgrounds?" she asked.

Raoul's father looked up from his breakfast. "Oh," he described the place, some miles from their home. "Why do you ask?"

Christine was already out of her seat and moving to the stairs. "Thank you!" she called back.

She pulled on her riding clothes without help from her maid. She couldn't spare a moment. They were here; so close. So close...her hands stilled over her corset strings. And yet, they didn't come find her.

But how would they know she was here?

How would they know she cared?

She was halfway to the stables when she heard footsteps behind her.

"Christine!"

Raoul caught up easily on long legs, but she didn't cease.

"Christine, please," he begged. "I know what you're doing. You're going back."

"I have to see them," Christine pleaded. "I left them. They need to know I still care."

"They left you, if I recall correctly," Raoul clarified, a hand on Raya's bridle. Christine threw the saddle pad on, then yanked the heavy saddle from the tack room. "Without a word."

"I left them first," Christine said, with less conviction. She hadn't realized how much Raoul had noticed.

"You cried for days, Christine," Raoul said in a quiet, cautious voice. She knew it well, it was the voice she used for wild horses, unkempt creatures at risk of spooking. "Don't do this to yourself. What if they turn you away?"

She secured the saddle and pulled down the stirrups, already a foot up in the loop to mount Raya. "I have to try," she said.

Raoul didn't let go of the bridle. "Please, I don't want to see you hurt."

"I'm a big girl," she said through gritted teeth. They had already exchanged more words than they had in the last month. She only wished it wasn't getting in her way.

She hadn't noticed the tears in Raoul's eyes, and it made her pause. "Raoul?"

"I just – please promise me you'll come back."

She sighed. "Oh, that? Of course I'll come back."

She smiled, and he released the leather slowly, as if he expected her to sneer and reveal her deceit and he would have to grab her horse again. But she didn't, and he watched her race out to the main road with a worried look on his face.

But Christine didn't notice, because she was single-mindedly racing to the circus, to her family, to her horses, to...everyone she cared about. The thoughts she had focused on in the last six months to temper her hope, that they were gone, that the horses were sold, that Erik would have left by now, all disappeared. Soon, they would all be reunited. Soon, everything would go back to normal.

Chapter Text

Even in the cool spring air, Christine and Raya worked up a sweat racing past traffic and buildings and carriages and pedestrians with as much care as they could muster until finally the city opened into the outskirts, the houses became less frequent, and boulevards were replaced with farmland.

They were so close.

So close and no one had told her.

She was desperate for the coarse manners of the fair folk, the greasepaint, the spangles, no one caring if she wore trousers or a skirt or rode in on the back of one of her wild horses. She needed the smell of Marguerite’s clove cigarettes and Piangi’s special stew on the campfire and the tittering laughs of the trapeze girls when all the lights had gone out. She needed a curry comb in her hands and her horses warm and fed and a boy who told stories in the dark of a stable.

The cobbles soon turned to dirt roads, the industry of the city dissolving into the simple paths of the common folk. The thoughts of chiffon or silk, quail or duck a la parisienne, peonies or hydrangeas for the church bouquets all faded in freedom’s fresh breeze. The air was light and warm and more real than the shame she would face when she returned, and she urged Raya forward. She was going home.

When her horse crested the hill and those first, blessed sights of the fairground below reached her, the circus was still setting up. A few curious locals watched as the men hammered stakes into the ground to secure the enormous, striped canvas tents. Christine could have burst into tears right there.

She dismounted and led Raya down the hill to where they worked, fresh hay laid down on the fairgrounds to give footing to the impending crowds. Her shiny boots and elegant skirt were already coated in a hearty layer of dust, and she smiled at it. She needed not touch her hair to know it had gone as wild as her thoughts on the ride over. It was nice to feel like herself again.

"Piangi!" she called, waving to the enormous man pounding a stake with a hammer the size of her torso. The strongman squinted in the sunlight in her direction, and gave a wide smile. He chuckled at the force with which she hugged him.

"Well hello there," he laughed. "Long time no see, little Miss Daae," he said, mussing her hair like she was little again. She grinned wide, tears pricking her eyes.

"It's so good to see you," she said, trying to keep her bubbling hysteria contained. “I’m so glad I caught you!”

Piangi told her they had just arrived the day prior, coming from the north. Money had been good, this year, but some of the men had been complaining about their wages lately.

“Is it because of the headliners?” Christine asked, chastened. She had just earned that spot, and then left so soon after, and what could they have possibly replaced her performance with?

“My dear girl,” Piangi shook his head. “Do not blame yourself. Besides –”

"Well I'll be damned," she heard a voice behind them, and Christine turned to see Marguerite sauntering over, swathed in her threadbare silk robe. "My dear, it’s good to see you.” She had a twinkle in her eye when she looked at Piangi. “You see, I knew you'd come back."

Piangi seemed to exchange a private frustration with Marguerite. Money exchanged hands, Marguerite smug, and Christine hurriedly pulled her into a bear-hug, breathing in the cigarette smoke and rosehip water on her friend’s skin. She smelled like home.

"There there, Christine," Marguerite soothed. "We don't blame you for leaving, my dear. Why don’t we go back to my rooms and talk?"

Christine wiped her eyes, laughing at how nice that sounded. She had been having tea every day in the fanciest rooms in Paris, surrounded by the most beautiful art and architecture, and the sight of the chipped tea set on Marguerite's worn cushions would put all those places to shame.

"I'd like that very much," she said. “Let me water Raya, and I’ll meet you there?”

Something flickered across Marguerite’s vision, but she smiled, and squeezed Christine’s hands, and nodded. “I’ll set out some of your favorite honeycakes, yeah?”

All along the way to the stables, Christine and Raya were met with greetings, and she found herself pulled to wagons, carts, and tents to tell people where she had been. She began to repeat herself: yes she was fine, thank you for the prayers for her father, she wasn’t sure if she was back for good. The questions caught her off guard: could she return? It was clear there was always a place for her here, but her father’s words still haunted her like ghosts in her mind. She saw it on people’s tanned faces, the early wrinkles of worry, the worn clothes they wore from place to place. She had boots that still gleamed; no doubt there would be many more in her new home in Paris. She clasped hands with a woman who could have been her mother; her mouth bore the lines of worry and hardship, lines a woman like Madame de Chagny would never permit on her own countenance.

In the tents and caravans, children played with the dogs that followed the camp; people enjoyed the midday sun with upturned faces. Even Raya seemed to relax here, ducking her head low and shaking out her mane as they loped to the stable. Christine looked up at the green buds on the trees and realized she had not taken the time to consider them this year. Were there even trees in Paris? She could not recall.

Being back, seeing the fires burning low, smelling the spice on the air of simple hearty food cooking near people’s wagons and being handed such kindness in the face of scarcity made something heal in her grieving heart. Everything was as it was, before. She could come back to it. Everything was still here.

But it isn’t the same, her mind reminded her, and that ache returned more keenly. Yes, Marguerite and the caravans and the people had returned, but her father was gone, never again to play the violin by the fire and scold her for working too hard. Something would always be missing, and could she bear to be reminded of that every time she saw someone here smile at her in pity?

The smell of hay deepened, the tang of animals intensified. She needed to see her horses, see Cesar and Calpurnia and Amber and be reunited with her herd. A part of her whispered about who else would be there, in the shadows of the stable, and that too urged her forward to the paddock with a quickening heart. Erik would understand how she felt. Erik would fix what was broken in her.

“Come on, girl,” she whispered to Raya, and they stepped into the stable.

Sunlight streamed through gaps in the canvas, the horses snorting and eating amiably, unbothered by their intrusion. Christine walked Raya to the nearest trough, noting the fresh hay on the ground and in the feeders.

“Look at you,” she crooned at Calpurnia, who munched happily. “So well fed…”

She considered the group, looked at truly how much hay was amongst them. Bales lay broken between them, the ground invisible among the straw. “So well…fed,” she said, frowning.

Perhaps someone new was in charge, perhaps they had not understood that this amount of hay could last a week if rationed appropriately. Perhaps that could be the case, if she didn’t know who, exactly, was in charge of the horses here since she had been away.

Erik, what have you done?

She looked for any sight of him, but there was no one here, no one in the shadows. The combs and tack hung neatly in rows, polished and organized the way she liked it, but he was neither in the stable nor the paddock beyond. She returned to the stable to notice the familiar trunk, its lid sitting ajar. So, he had been there. He was the only one who could crack the lock on it, and he wouldn’t have left it open.

Erik, where are you?

She stepped cautiously toward the trunk, her boot crunching unnaturally in the dirt. On the ground were pieces of paper, torn and crumpled almost beyond recognition. She paused to pick up a scrap, the writing a neat, black cursive.

Dear Monsieur Firmin,

I once again thank you for-

The sentence was torn through there, and Christine began to scavenge for the other scraps. Some had fallen behind the hay bales, and underfoot of lazy horses. She risked her fingers to snatch pieces from beneath Cal’s shifting hooves.

It was not Erik’s handwriting, that was obvious – after all, his scrawl was worse than Christine’s chicken scratch. It was not the swirling ornate script of Madame de Chagny, nor the purposeful print of her father. What business did this writer have with Mr. Firmin, and why was it here, torn up in her stable?

She cleared a space in the dirt and knelt, a lantern next to her to weigh down the pieces from any errant drafts. In the low light of the stable, she started piecing the scraps together. Slowly, the words formed in front of her.

Dear Monsieur Firmin,

I once again thank you for your discretion. Enclosed find the month's payment of 20 francs. I am settled in town and you were correct: employment is bountiful. I have spoken to several seamstresses who need more help, and the mill pays well. Soon I will have enough for rent at the boarding house and to pay your promised bonus for taking on such an endeavor.

As for Erik, I trust your judgment. Do not underestimate him because of his affliction; beneath is a cunning mind prone to mischief and turns of a mercurial nature which has been my torment these last two decades. Many accuse me of not knowing what I had borne into the world: this is my burden and I will take it to my maker.

My only advice would be to keep his exceptionally keen mind busy; give him books, give him occupation; do not allow him out, do not give him anything that could be turned into a weapon; he is incredibly crafty. Any mistake in that regard would be your last. I have seen him kill before.

This lengthy correspondence will be my last; do not solicit me further on this matter. I am paying you a king's ransom to keep him isolated and interned so that he does not hurt a soul again. He is yours now, to do with what you will. He will bring in a hefty sum with his devil's face; should he not, no matter: keep me ignorant of his fate should anything further befall him. I wash my hands of my sin, though it will stay on my soul forever, I fear.

The next sum will be paid in due time. Do not write further; Erik cannot know where I am. It is better he think me dead. Should he find me, I dare not imagine what horror waits for me.

Madeline

Christine read and reread the words again and again. The steely words of a woman she had never met painted a clear enough picture of who wrote to Mr. Firmin. That locked drawer in his study…Erik must have finally conquered it.

Erik’s mother was alive.

The woman...Erik's mother lived, she thrived, in some nearby city...on purpose? In all the scenarios Erik had suggested under the star-filled sky, where she could be, how she planned to get back to him, how she might have met her fate: in all those scenarios, she was fighting to return to him, was killed trying to return to him, was focused only on her son. Even Erik, in his darkest moods, couldn't imagine she didn't want him to find her. That she left of her own volition to live apart, forever. To pretend she was missing, or dead, to hide from her son.

“Oh, Erik,” Christine whispered at the fractured letter in the dirt. He had found this, had learned such horrible information all alone, with no one but the horses to hear his cries.

Christine turned to the disordered stable, the empty trunk. The horses snorted, and she realized too late: Cesar was not with the others. The white stallion, the fastest horse gone, the extra hay left out for the others.

She reread the letter again. “Town,” the woman had written. What town? What milltown was she hiding out in, and how far away was Erik already? Could she catch him in time?

The caravan was quiet; Mr. Firmin was stooped over correspondence when Christine slammed the door open, startling him. Good. She didn’t much care for the man who had betrayed them at the moment; she needed answers.

“Christine! My dear, how are you? You look well–”

“Where is he?” she asked, her hands shaking.

She watched the man falter, his pen hovering over the forgotten papers. “I don’t understand what you mean.”

“Erik. Where is he?” It did not sound like a question. She hoped he too heard the threat in her voice.

"Oh, Erik?” he huffed. “I'm not sure. He was pawing around my office yesterday and I had to shoo him out. Quite annoying actually, he –"

She held up a hand, stilling the manager’s thoughts. "Mr. Firmin, where is he?"

"I don't know why you think I would know, dear, if he isn’t in the stable…"

"He went to find his mother."

Firmin went a shade paler. "Now that, my dear, cannot be true."

“It is.” Christine did not bother with the details, the stolen letter. They were losing valuable time. “He knows she’s alive. Knows everything. Now please, sir, you need to tell me where Madeline Claudin is living.”

Firmin stammered. “Now young lady, do you think your father would want you speaking to me like this–”

Her father. What would he think of her, going against his wishes, trying to save a boy he never liked, abandoning all the opportunities he had set up for her to return to the place he forbade.

“I think my father would not want any more people to be hurt by this place,” she said, quietly. “I think he would want them both safe.”

Mr. Firmin was silent, watching her with much agitation. He tapped his pen against the desk. “My dear girl…”

“Just a place. A town. I need to get to him,” she pleaded, much more tired than when she strode in so brazenly only a few moments before. “Before anyone does anything they might regret.”

Silently, Firmin stood. He removed a hidden chain from around his neck and used the gold key it held to unlock a tiny drawer in his desk. Inside, from among the papers, he chose one and handed it to Christine. An empty envelope, with that same, cold lettering.

"This is the address for Madame Claudin." His hands shook when he spoke. “If it is true that he knows what she's done...I can only ask that you hurry, girl."

Christine’s heart threatened to beat out of her chest. Étampes. It was a day, maybe more, of hard riding. Could she possibly catch up to him? What would she find when she did?

“Thank you, Mr. Firmin.” She watched the shaken man at the desk who had caused so much suffering.

He seemed adrift, his eyes unfocused. “I didn’t mean for this all to happen,” he said, absently. Christine nodded, though she could not forgive him, not yet, not until she knew Erik was alright. She held tight to the address and left the circus owner to his frantic thoughts.

Étampes was a small town. The circus didn’t go to towns that small. Probably intentional, Christine noted. It was south of here. She hoped Erik stopped to make camp, to water Cesar, to feed himself. Perhaps he wanted to delay the reunion, perhaps he was taking his time. It was this thought she held onto as she marched back to the stable.

“Christine!” Marguerite, in her robe, called her. She did not stop at first, did not stop when the voice got closer, only stopped when there was a hand on her wrist and the deceptively fast bearded lady descended on her. “Where on earth are you going in such a hurry?”

“Marguerite, please, I have to go,” Christine said, her nerves afire. If she told Marguerite everything, she would be too exhausted to keep going, to ride the miles it would take to find him, the boy with the yellow eyes. Time was slipping as fast as the sun on the horizon. She had to go.

To her surprise, Marguerite gave her a hard, knowing look. "You cannot go after him, my love."

Christine sputtered, Marguerite’s eyes pinning her in place. "Why not?"

"You have a life to get back to, remember?" Her voice was cool, calm, the sea at Perros. Her father’s care and attention flowed through her clearly in that moment, and Christine stopped trying to pull away.

She remembered the de Chagnys, Raoul's pleading face, his wish for her to return quickly. Her life in Paris was waiting for her with bated breath. The life her father wanted for her.

But didn’t her father know who his daughter was? He had to know she was not a gilded lily destined to rot in a parlor when people were hurting. He led the circus people with a clear mind and firm hand, and would never leave one of theirs to suffer. That, too, was the blood in her veins, as much as her mother’s fine lineage. He instilled in her that headstrong sense as much as he protected her, and she would do his memory an injustice to ignore it now.

“Marguerite, I have to go,” she said, firmly, sure. “I’ll be back, but I have to find him. Please try to understand.”

Marguerite nodded, her eyes tinged with sadness. “Yes, I know. Be careful, love.”

Christine rolled her eyes. “Aren’t I always?”

Marguerite had to laugh at that, releasing her with a shake of her head. “I swear…come back in one piece!” she called after Christine.

“I might!” she retorted, already dashing to the stables.

She threw things haphazardly into Raya's new saddlebag, provisions and a blanket and who knew what else. It was comforting, having her worn saddle blanket under the expensive saddle Raoul had bought her, to have her old camping gear in the conditioned leather that had never seen a hard day's ride in its life. She left the horses more food, left them in Marguerite's care, and set off for the main road.

Raya opened into full stride under her, elated to finally be given the open road to stretch her legs. Christine felt the same, at first; it did no good to panic, yet, and to ride without any social expectations or judgmental eyes after so many months felt good. It was still cold, and her body was unused to the outdoors, but she could feel herself acclimating as they tore down the dirt road away from the city and towards Étampes. It would be a long ride, but she needed to make it: Erik had nearly a day on her. Cesar was fast, but Raya could be faster – and he didn't know someone was following him, someone who was determined to stop him.

She knew Erik, she knew who she had befriended and she knew what he was capable of. He had admitted it, after all. He had taken life before, for his mother. What would he do when he was face to face with the woman who sold him into servitude, who did not care whether he lived or died? He had come so far from the monster who had tried to steal her horses; but hadn't he done it, in the end? Stolen her horse without a care for her? Had he even changed? Would he take another life? Would he go so far as to kill his mother? Would she be able to stop him?

She didn't like how her stomach twisted uncertainly at the questions.

As they sped past scattered farmland, the road became less traveled and the sky darkened. Raya sweat under her saddle, but Christine urged her on. Gone was the elation from the beginning of the ride: determination prevailed. She had to stop him, help him stop himself from becoming the monster he already thought he was. She needed to make him see another way.

How she would manage that, she didn't know.

So they rode through the night, Christine only slowing to eat a hunk of bread, to give Raya a chance to graze, only stopping at creeks to give them both a drink in the night. They kept moving. Christine remembered another night, a wolf's eyes in the darkness. Now, she didn’t know if the next predator she would come across would be beast or man.

She shoved those thoughts aside and rode on.

They passed the small towns into Étampes as the sun crested red over the small hills beyond and the trees opened to a wider road. She passed the beginnings of a village waking with the dawn as Raya continued on. They both seemed invigorated by the sight of people, at the signs they might make it, that they could be there in time.

Christine gritted her teeth. Madeline...how could a mother abandon her child? It seemed so cruel, and yet...she replayed the nights where Erik revealed himself to her. Their home burning down, the town where he lived exiling him...and his mother as well, cast out of her home only to be met with violence and death again and again. She liked to imagine if she was in such a position she would stand by her child. But what would be her breaking point? At what point did you decide to leave your son behind?

She stopped in the morning at the general store of Étampes, letting Raya drink at a trough, letting her own sore legs ease out of the uncomfortable bowlegged feeling of a hard ride. She headed into the store not for sustenance but information. She picked up apples for herself and her horse and headed to the store owner behind the enormous cash register.

"Good morning," she smiled her best star smile. The man looked up.

"Well, good morning stranger. What brings you here, darling?" he asked.

She ignored the condescension and continued. "I'm visiting my mother's friend. Maybe you know her? Madame Claudin?"

He frowned. So Madeline may have forgone her name as well as her son.

She recalled the address on the envelope. "I'm looking for Mulberry Hill, I think?"

The man's fog cleared. "Ah, yes, just yonder," he pointed behind the building. "Over that ridge."

"Thank you," she said, putting a shiny coin from her new life on the bar. "I'll see you around."

She bit into the mealy apple without protest. She was close.

Raya climbed the ridge easily. Beyond, the land was a supple valley of green. Nestled behind apple trees in bloom, a tiny cottage sat.

It was the only house around for miles. It must be the place where Madeline was living. It had to be.

There was no sign of Erik, but Christine had known him long enough to know that if he didn't want to be seen, he wouldn't be. He was likely hiding out.

Or perhaps you are too late, her brain hissed. She ignored it, as well as the questions beginning to cluster in her mind. What would she do when she got there? What if she made things worse? What if she couldn't calm him? Then what?

They descended over the ridge as the sun rose in the sky. She prayed she wasn't too late.

Chapter Text

Erik Claudin couldn’t remember when he learned that he was a burden.

He supposed it was when he was five, watching his mother shake her head at him, a carpet bag in her hand, a mask in the other, his first. Or, perhaps, it was when, in the tiny house, the flames surrounded him and he could not breathe, and yet his mother yelled, and cried, and the priest said he was cursed.

Either way, he knew he had to leave. He packed his little bag with his meager clothes and set off on the road, only to be struck and nearly killed by a racing carriage. He still had a scar on his leg from a hoof, and he was still a burden to his mother.

As a boy he knew he was unwanted. Why, then, did it hurt him so terribly now?

Cesar snorted, indignant, at the riverbank. The horse had carried him well, had made fast work of the miles to Etampes, the little town by the river, and now he drank his fill of the cool stream before them. Sweat coated the white horse; it, too, trickled down Erik’s unmasked brow. It felt disingenuous, somehow, to visit such a place while covering his mother’s biggest regret.

Besides, he could still see the words – embedded beneath his eyelids like burrs, stinging with each remembrance.

“I wash my hands of my sin, though it will stay on my soul forever.”

So this is what she thought of him. He had imagined her maimed, killed, lost in the woods, but this...he had not imagined the thatched cottage that lay ahead of him, smoke swirling cheerfully up from the chimney.

She was alive. She was happy. Happy without him.

Just like Christine.

He had seen the announcement in the paper, of course, “the marriage of Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, to Miss Christine Daae at the Madeline...” So she had made her choice, finally. It was the announcement that pushed him to search for that letter, to finally end all the questions left in his life. It should have been a relief, really, to no longer be tethered to anyone. Given what he was about to do, no one would be connected to such a monster like him.

He adjusted Cesar’s saddle, rummaged in his saddle bag. Would she think of him, as they laced her corset, buttoned the thousands of pearls down her back, adjusted her veil? Would there be a moment, as the priest settled everyone for the ceremony, when she looked back at the doors, hoping he would interrupt? Would she ever think of him again, once the wedding ring was heavy on her finger, or the summer they spent under the stars?

He was hurting himself with these questions, and he knew it, and he was stalling. He looped Cesar’s reins over a low hanging branch, securing them loosely should the horse need to bolt for safety. It was not entirely unlikely; perhaps the authorities would be called to investigate the monster seen stalking the woods.

He looked back at the cottage, nausea and rage roiling in his empty stomach. There was a garden out back. His mother had a terrible way with growing...anything; it was her eternal curse, it seemed, unable to even fully form a child. Yet this garden grew jovially, the buds and blossoms boasting a coming, hearty harvest. Ivy trailed up the stone walls of the cottage, and a welcoming red door mocked him where he stood in the shadow of the wood.

He had done everything for his mother, and she had forsaken him.

Just like you have forsaken Christine?

The question was a hissing snake, a reminder of his shame. The way he hid from her in the shadows of the stable when she came to find him. The way he stayed behind during her father’s funeral, unable to face her, unable to say what he needed to say.

You let her go.

Yes, but from cowardice, not righteousness. He should have held her, should have let her tears soak his weathered wool jacket at that horrible church, should have ignored all obstacles for love of her.

But he hadn’t, and now it was too late.

If she was here now, he would speak the apology that was so impossible all those months before. He would apologize, and congratulate her, and really and truly let her go.

And then you would take those feelings to the grave, to rot.

He took one last look at the cottage. He wished, for a moment, to see a face in the window, evidence she was well cared for, not the sharp bones and hollows of those last days of the circus.

He had caused her so much harm, taken her from home and safety and put her in danger, stolen her chance at a normal life at every turn. That much was plain to him now, as he watched the smoke curl into the blue sky above the quaint cottage. His rage had long since cooled. He did not hate his mother. He had only himself to blame. He had ridden all this way to do the only thing he found he could do: protect her one last time from her malignant penance. At least he could give her that, in the end. He could give her freedom from her burden of a son.

When no face came to the window, and the sun began its slow descent to the horizon, he turned to Cesar, who nosed at his shirt. He sighed, found the sugar cubes in his pocket. The beast wasn’t so horrible, it seemed, when you bribed him. It would be one of the things he missed; taking care of the horses, and their unique personalities.

But it would be for the best. It would be for the best that Erik Claudin disappeared. For his mother, and for Christine. He could do that much.

However, death’s head on a white steed would catch notice, would portend ominous tidings. He fidgeted with the saddlebags, removing them from the horse. Then came the saddle, falling heavy to the detritus of the old forest floor.

“Well Cesar,” he said, carefully beginning to remove the tack from the horse’s velveteen face. “I hope you find your home, out there, too--“

Behind him, a branch snapped and both horse and rider turned, adopting a defensive stance, both standing their ground, both prepared to protect their non-existent herd.

There were leaves in her hair. He didn’t know why he saw that first, but the pine needles and maple leaves stuck to her curls like some forgotten nymph conjured to appear at the presence of a mortal intruder. Her skirts, boots, blouse – and hair, and face — were coated in enough dust to dim the glow of a less beautiful creature; for her, the marks of nature only amplified her beauty. Behind her, Raya, her constant shadow, snorted and shook her enormous head.

“Erik,” Christine breathed, her chest heaving from some unseen effort. She looked at him like she was unsure if he was real, and he felt very much the same.

He could not move, but she could, of course she could, she was the firebrand of his life, and she was walking toward him, no, she was rushing at him and if she didn’t slow down she would–

Oh.

All of the thoughts: the doubt, the shame, the anger toward her and toward himself evaporated when her lips met his, and he was grateful he was unmasked, so he could feel her, truly feel her...

She broke away too soon, was trying to say something, but there was something he needed to say too, and he found it in the back of his stunned mind as she searched for words.

Together they spoke: “I’m sorry.”

He heard her laugh, her beautiful laugh, and his face cracked into the smile he hated; but that thought did not linger, vanishing in the way she looked up at him, the way she held his cheek with her warm palm.

He shook his head. “I left you–“

She was disagreeing. “You can’t say that after all I’ve done.” He prevented her dissent with another kiss and for once, Christine Daae was silent. Her little hand wrapped around his waist, holding him with a fervency that surprised him, even in the chaos of surprises of the last few moments. She was here, she was here and she was kissing him, and he was holding her again.

“Don’t do this,” she was saying against his chest, and he frowned down at her.

“I have to,” he said, as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“But you love your mother!” she said, her hand snarling in the back of his shirt, clutching in protest. “Surely you wouldn’t–”

Erik’s mind was syrup, but it could still draw conclusions, albeit slowly. “Christine, what are you saying?”

“I saw your mother’s letter, Erik, I’m so sorry she spoke of you like that. But violence–”

He extracted himself from her grasp. “Violence? Christine, do you think I’m going to hurt her?” His stomach rolled. It had been too good to be true, of course, to find her here in the forest, searching for him. She had not found him to apologize, or come back to him, or urge him to stay. She only came to stop him from committing some horrible crime. Then, no doubt she would be comfortably riding back to Paris in the vicomte’s carriage to her impending nuptials before Erik could even leave the province.

From the look on her face he could see he had been right about his fears. He ran a hand over his horrible face, the gnarls of his inhuman visage mocking him. “Oh, I am stupid...” he groaned.

“Erik?” Christine was reaching for him, and it was all too much. He remembered why he hid from this girl in the first place. His heart could not take any more battering.

“Go,” he hissed. When she did not listen, he roared. “Go, now! Leave me, this monster, while you still can, Christine!”

“You aren’t a monster!” She was getting louder now, and her protests only angered him further.

“You’ve made yourself quite clear, so why don’t you ride off with your prince charming, and I’ll keep busy killing the townsfolk. Why not start with my mother, huh?” He was being cruel, but so was she, and he was so tired.

“Excuse me.”

They both startled at the figure suddenly near them. The woman stood, watching both with some concern, her brow furrowed as she surveyed the scene without fear. She wore her clothes severely, the simple dress of a village woman, and she carried a large basket on her hip, filled with mushrooms and some herbs. Her nails were dirty, but the rest of her was fiercely immaculate, her dark hair tied back simply and without ornament.

She spoke again. “What are you doing here?”

Erik cleared his throat, not looking at Christine, who was looking between the two of them with fear and some confusion. He collected himself before speaking, politely and abstractly.

“Mother, this is Christine Daae. Christine, may I introduce my mother.”

Christine blinked at the woman who gazed at her with mild interest and moderate disdain. If she wasn’t so horrified at the circumstances, she would laugh. How many times had she seen that same sardonic expression on Erik’s face? There was no doubt in the world that Erik was telling the truth, and this was his mother.

Her knees were bending into a small curtsy, the long months of practiced manners good for something. The woman nodded back, and Christine could not help but stare between parent and child. Madeline Claudin held herself with the same haughty, rigid posture, but she was a good foot shorter than her beanpole son; they both boasted a sharp profile though the familial similarity was somewhat muddled by the defined lines of the mother’s face and the absence of some features on the son.

“What are you doing here?” Erik’s mother asked, her voice the dark, low threat of a storm on a coast; Erik’s expression was already tempestuous.

“I could ask you the same, mother,” he replied, hands stuffed in his pockets.

Behind them, the horses munched gaily on the long grass, none the wiser to the tense family reunion they were an unwitting part of. Christine envied them, and had a fleeting vision of grabbing Erik and riding away, far from the fraught stares in this standoff on his mother’s property.

The argument of a moment ago was clearly forgotten on Erik’s part; he could only glare at his mother in shock and anger. Christine thought of the letter, the rumors, what Erik had endured; what would Erik do, given the chance for revenge?

But she also remembered his reaction to her warning; what, if not violence, did he “have” to do?

Madeline shifted the basket and looked at her in a way that made Christine feel every stain on her clothes and every leaf in her hair.

“You can hitch the horses by the gate,” she sighed more than said, already turning and heading toward the little house. “I suppose you’ll want tea.”

Christine shot a glance at Erik, who, still frowning, was stalking after his mother like some malevolent shadow. Christine recovered her horse and followed quickly.

“Erik,” she whispered. “Cesar!”

Christine did not like how Cesar had been stripped of his tack; what was Erik not telling her? Cesar was a disobedient horse at best; it was not wise to take his tack off in unfamiliar woods–

Just then, the tall shadow paused; turned to the stallion and gave a sharp whistle. Christine watched in amazement as the most stubborn horse in the world stopped grazing and trotted toward Erik as obediently as a dog.

Christine shook her head. “Unbelievable,” she said. “I’ve never seen him so docile.”

Erik pretended not to care, but she could see his mouth fighting an arrogant smirk. “Just lots of practice,” he retorted. “Anyone could do it.”

She did not miss the exchange from master to horse of a sugar cube.

“As long as they have bribes,” she said, finally rewarded with a blush from his unmasked face, and he led them toward the gate.

Erik frowned as they secured the horses. Christine cast a glance at the open door of the cottage through which Madeline entered, and she found Erik’s hand, stilling it on Cesar’s bridle. “We can just hear what she has to say,” she said. “Who knows, maybe there’s a larger explanation.”

Erik shook his head. “I doubt it.”

“Or,” Christine considered. “There isn’t. But we don’t really know, not yet.”

Erik closed his eyes, a familiar, pinched look on his face.

She squeezed his hand. “I promise I will be with you,” she said.

“I don’t need a chaperone to see my mother, Christine,” he said, the argument from earlier in the tone of his voice. “I’m not going to do anything.”

“I know.” She tried to sound like she believed it. She wasn’t sure what she believed, anymore. For the moment, she couldn’t see beyond passing through this door, and what truths it would reveal about them both. “I’m sorry, about earlier. I let your mother’s words get to me.”

He opened his eyes, hurt flashing for an instant before the measured apathy returned.

“Let me help,” she whispered, trying to hold his gaze. It flickered at her, then away.

“Fine.”

“Besides, if she says anything to hurt you anymore, I will fight her myself.”

That got a smile, albeit a thin one. “I’d like to see that.”

Madeline Claudin’s house was impeccably and decidedly cozy, to the point that Christine was reminded of her father's Swedish fairy tales, the story of the kind witch in the woods, her little house the only refuge from the harsh spirits of the forest. Everything was perfect, not a speck of dust on the wide pine boards of the floor. A fire roared in a cozy fireplace, the source of the smoke they had spied earlier. Something was cooking in the hearth, a stew in a cast iron pot hovering over the flames. Christine heard Erik inhale deeply. This was a home; perfect, small, quaint. Enough for a single person to live. Two people would be too crowded, it would make the place imperfect. Madeline's home gave no hint of space for another, and its lived-in quality made no suggestion this was temporary lodging. Christine breathed. This conversation was to be difficult, then. Her hope that Madeline’s absence could be explained as a misunderstanding quickly dwindled.

“Tea?” Madeline asked from another room. Christine could see the edge of her dark skirts disappearing as she passed the open doorway, bustling to and fro, and for a moment she could pretend they were simply guests, that the woman in the kitchen was merely a generous host. How many cups of tea would have to be served to make up for abandoning your child?

Erik gave no indication that he had heard her or that he was going to answer. Christine nodded, remembering her manners. "Yes, please. Thank you."

Madeline had left them standing in the main room; she disappeared deeper into the room that Christine assumed was the kitchen. She nudged Erik, whose thoughts she could not begin to guess at.

“You need to talk to her at some point,” she said under her breath. “You’re making her nervous.”

“Of course I am,” Erik said, quiet enough that only she could hear. “You said it yourself, she fears me. You both think I am here to kill her.”

Christine’s breath left her lungs at the words being spoken aloud. Only then could she see how wrong she was.

Of course he wouldn’t, she had always known he wouldn’t. The hysterical words of a desperate mother had influenced her mind, but she should have always known. This was Erik, the boy who did sums in his head, and who learned mythology because she loved it, and who trained her impossible horse. How could a person who wrought such everyday miracles be a monster?

She must have had an odd expression on her face, because it even snapped Erik from his brooding. “What?” he asked.

It was plain as day, the path beyond Madeline and Erik, and this. Where she would fit, after everything. “Nothing,” she smiled. “I love–”

Madeline returned, carrying a large tray holding a mismatched tea setting, the clay mugs differing sizes and unorthodox shapes for their purpose, yet they held tea with middling success. Christine ceased her confession and bit her lip as Madeline placed the tray on a small stool in the center of the tiny living space.

“Forgive me,” Madeline said, in a tone which suggested she did not seek forgiveness from either of them. “I do not usually entertain guests.”

Christine smiled, praying Erik would have the sense to do the same, out of politeness, but he scowled and rolled his eyes.

Madeline paused, eyes flicking to Erik. Her attention shifted back and forth between the glowering shadow of her son and Christine. Christine once again fought to keep the conversation going.

“This is a lovely area,” she commented. “Have you...ah, been here long?”

“Nearly a year,” Madeline nodded. “Please...”

“Please, call me Christine.”

“Christine, yes, please sit, Christine. You...also.”

Christine set herself on the small milk stool next to the armchair. She gave Erik a sharp look, forcing him to sit, which he did, stiffly. Madeline sat across from them. Despite her placid smile, she still watched them carefully.

Christine watched the two as though she observed an intense game of chess, waiting for the next move. She dared not break the silence, not now.

"Mother,” Erik said, voice low and threatening to tremble.

“Erik,” she replied in a similar tone.

“You left," Erik said, voice measured. The only thing that betrayed his seeming serenity was the slight break at the beginning of his words.

Madeline abruptly rose to stoke the fire. She did not look at him, nor Christine; her dark eyes reflected the fire’s glow, and for a minute it was almost as though she shared the unnaturally yellow eyes of her son. “I had to,” she said to the flames.

Christine looked at Erik, could see the muscles in his neck move as he swallowed and she wanted to throw herself between them, to end his pain. Her fingernails bit into her palm to stop herself.

"Why?" Erik's voice wavered, and it broke Christine's heart.

Madeline hadn't expected the question, and she turned to him, her mouth opened, wordless.

"Erik, I'm sorry," she attempted, but he was already standing, already heading for the door. Christine leapt up.

"Let him go," Madeline said, voice hard. "Erik always does what he wants, so just let him go."

The door opened, the golden sunset streaming in, and Erik slammed it shut behind him without a word.

The silence in the tiny cottage hurt Christine's ears, which pounded with her heart's blood.

“This.” Madeline said to no one, though Christine was the only one in the room. “This is why I left.” She turned her piercing eyes on Christine, shaking her head. “You have no idea what it is like to have a child like this. All he wants is to ruin my life, my constant punishment.”

"You're wrong," Christine heard herself say.

"Excuse me?"

"You're wrong about him." Christine said. "About him being a punishment...about wanting to ruin you...” She felt herself redden, from either the fire or the sudden scrutiny from the sharp, striking woman now staring at her. "Everything he does is for other people." She gave a little smile. "He seems arrogant, I know, and pig-headed, sometimes, but...everything he does is just so he can be seen, be heard...be loved by other people."

Madeline didn’t speak, so Christine continued, not caring what the woman thought of her. "It's why he performs, why he wears a mask...just to be seen as someone worthy of attention, of adoration....it's why he did that terrible thing...to protect you, to make himself worthy of being your child." Christine squinted, her sight blurry through insistent tears. "And you just left him."

Madeline looked away, reaching to stir the fire, but Christine held out a hand, stilling her. Madeline would listen to what she had to say, and she would own her shame.

"Do you know how hard he has worked, to find you? All the nights he's stayed up, worrying about you, trying to reach you – he tried to steal my horse, he’s broken into all manner of things, searched for clues for months, thinking you were dead, or in danger...and to read what you said about him to Firmin, to find you here alive and well ...how could you?!" Christine was crying now, and her thoughts were jumbled, but it felt cathartic to transfer the guilt she felt about her own choices onto this deserving target.

Madeline slowly shook her head, her black eyes miles away. “You have no idea what it's like," she said, voice low. Her eyes flickered to the flames, and they shone and glistened from the firelight and tears. "To be exiled from your home, to lose your family, friends, to be alone in the world. To perform to survive, not because you love it, but because you have to, because there's no longer a choice for you, because of nothing you did. Fate, I guess," she gave a short, mean laugh. Christine flinched. "You lose yourself, feel bits of yourself slipping away with every new town, every new person trying to take something from you. Until you find you don't really feel...anything. Anything at all."

Christine stared, mouth dry. She could still feel the steel pins at the back of her neck at the bridal salon; the melancholy creeping in at every demure smile and tepid laugh. She didn't need to nod for Madeline to know she understood. Understood keenly.

"I died. Long before my son killed that man, I was already dead. But when that happened, I knew that was it – if I was ever going to survive, truly live, I needed to leave."

To Christine, the ghosts in the room had made it suffocatingly crowded. She was desperate for air, but settled for a word. "You could have brought him with you. You left him, alone."

Madeline looked at her plainly, the despair on her face a haunting version of her son’s own appearance. “You say he has changed. When I left, I wasn't sure he could change. Only that he would get worse. I could only make sure he didn't hurt anyone else. Firmin promised he could do that. He could do what I no longer could."

"He was locked in a cage," Christine's voice shook. "Like an animal."

Madeline nodded. So this was not news to her. Christine’s blood boiled.

"And are you?" Christine spit. "Coming alive now?"

Madeline gave a weary nod. "Slowly. The town has been very kind, and I have my own demons to wrestle."

"Yet you see your son, who has traveled day and night, and feel nothing?"

"He is not the one having this conversation, is he?" Madeline retorted, a familiar tone to her voice. "How much has he changed?"

"He has. I am sure of it."

"And you are so sure he didn't come here today to kill me?" Madeline spit back.

“He didn’t,” Christine said, a realization from the woods now in her simmering blood. “He came to say goodbye.” Of course: the tack on the ground, the conversation with Cesar, the hiding in the treeline. He was going to disappear. From Madeline. From her.

And they deserved it. Madeline did not deserve her son’s love, or forgiveness. Neither did she, after how she had acted.

She had to make it right.

Christine stood, startling Madeline. “Mrs. Claudin, you are wrong.”

“You’ve made your opinion quite clear, my dear,” she said, Erik’s sarcasm in her voice.

Christine saw the cottage, suddenly, for what it was; a bastion, a fortress. Outside, a boy who just wanted his mother to see him for himself laid siege for her affection; and this implacable woman would abandon the castle before letting him win.

“I feel sorry for you,” Christine said, looking at the spoils of war with which Madeline surrounded herself: denial, mistruths, and her belief that her son could never be saved. “Have a nice evening.” She gave the rudest curtsy she could muster and dashed out the door, into the dying sunlight.

Erik waited by the horses, sitting on a tree stump facing pointedly away from the house. Christine flung her arms around him, her hot face soothed by the cool fabric of his roughspun shirt.

“I’m sorry,” she said into his shoulder as his hands found her cheek, her hair.

His voice carried the weariness of the day. “Don’t be,” he said. “You didn’t know.”

“She’s so...infuriating. She can’t see past her own mind to think, just for a second, that you aren’t some manifestation of her sins, and that you can change, that you have changed...” Christine was crying again. Erik pulled her into a hard hug, all bones and sharp edges, and she could feel his racing heart against her tear-stained cheek.

"I know, I know," he said, his voice a rumble in her ear. He shook his head. "Some people don't change, it's true. She, ironically, is one of them."

“I’m sorry,” she repeated, and his hand on her cheek made her look up.

“Don’t apologize for her,” he said. “I already know what she’s like.”

“I’m not,” she sniffled. “I’ve been horrible.”

This caught Erik off guard, and his laugh was a surprised bark. “You’ll have to refresh my memory.”

“Now that, Erik, I do not believe,” she frowned. “You have a perfect memory, I’m sure you’ve kept a running list of all my mistakes these past months.”

“Christine Daae, I would do no such thing,” he smiled, trying, though vainly, to smooth her hair. His long fingers found a leaf, and he plucked it from her curls and twirled it in front of her. “Perhaps personal grooming, however, could be improved.”

“Absolutely, anything,” she nodded solemnly.

“And the matter of leaving,” he said, seriousness touching the edges of his joking tone.

They had made it through, they had returned to each other, and never before had Christine’s future seemed so clear.

She held his yellow gaze. “I will never leave you ever again, Erik Claudin,“ Christine promised. “As long as you’ll have me.”

Erik’s eyes twinkled in the sunset, and his lips found her warm forehead. “I will always have you, Christine Daae.”

She closed her eyes, suddenly worn out from the day and Erik’s arms were the only thing holding her upright.

“Earlier...” Erik said, his chin on the top of her head, his fingers tracing patterns on her back. “What were you going to say?”

“Not everyone has your memory, Erik,” she teased. “But if I had to guess...”

“If you had to guess...” he prompted.

“It would have been that I was just going to say that I loved you.”

His chin left the top of her head. “Loved?”

She lifted her face to his. “Love,” she clarified. “I love you, Erik.”

Dusk fell over them as she kissed him, and he kissed her back, sugar on his breath and the relief of reunion sweeter because of it. She had missed this, the wild grass of the meadow rushing in the spring breeze beneath their feet, the birds heading together to their roosts at nightfall, the certainty of his hand in hers. She could kiss him forever, and remember what she had longed for all this time, but they would have time for that, nothing but time.

“Erik?” she whispered.

“Mm?” he muttered against her mouth as though he shared her thoughts and did not want to interrupt their reunion, now they had found each other. She had no plans of that. No, not now. Not ever.

“Take me home, please.”

Chapter Text

Dear Mme Claudin,

I'm not even sure you will read this letter. Erik says it is a waste of time. But I've got new stationery, and I'm sitting at my new desk, in my new office, and I feel like this letter may hold a bit more power coming from the new owner of the “Daae-Claudin Family Circus.” –

Christine leaned back in the mahogany chair and sighed. Was it ridiculous to even bother?

She absently twisted the ring on her finger; a simple band, on the wrong hand, on the wrong finger, it hadn't even fit, when he gave it to her, but she loved it regardless. Her hands had been bare since she had ridden back to Paris and returned a much more ornate ring to a much more bereft suitor. There had been tears, from both; screaming, from his mother. Christine had run away, fleeing the shrieks down the golden limestone driveway of the estate. Only later...much later, in fact, did she receive a reply to her many letters to Raoul. The expense of the wedding had been substantial, but nothing his parents couldn't afford. Soon, his brother would be marrying, and his mother had already turned her attentions on his new bride.

And you? she had asked of her friend, her comfort and confidant in those terrible days after her father's death.

He had not found anyone – no one, at least, who could compare to the circus girl he had lost. He ended his last letter with a promise to visit, when he was in town again. Christine hoped he would find someone better for him; someone who could complement his kind generosity, someone who could withstand his world.

She pulled the ring from her finger and slipped it back on, twisting it to and fro. The letter had been an impulse that she finally had time to act on, but the nearly blank page leered up at her. She heard footsteps and looked up from the desk, tearing her eyes from the paper.

"Are you alright?" Erik said, ducking into the caravan. They had done so much to renovate the space, to clear out old papers and boxes, but they couldn't add height to the wagon. Maybe soon they could afford a new one, built to his specifications, but for now he tried not to bump his head.

Erik's brow furrowed at her expression.

She attempted a game smile. "I’m fine."

He continued towards her anyway, not believing. "I told you, it's not worth it. She won't respond."

"But–" Christine's breath hitched, her fingers still fidgeting with the ring. "But it's been a year, and she should hear what you've done. What you've accomplished.”

He gave a snort. "So she can be absolved? I think not."

"So she can know! So she can see you’ve changed...or whatever it is she thinks you can't do." Christine hated the word “change” at this point; how could Erik have “changed” when he was never a monster in the first place?

He shook his head and landed a soft kiss on her forehead. Christine raised her chin to meet his kiss.

"I just want to do this," she said softly. "Let me try."

"Of course," he said. Long ago he had learned to stop telling her what to do. "I just hate to see her upset anyone else." He cleared his throat. "Especially you."

"I'm fine," she repeated. "Besides, I’m a business owner now, I think I can handle a little old lady," she winked. "How is she doing?"

"She’s alright," Erik remarked, helping himself to the only new addition to the caravan: a constant rotation of treats and baked goods on various trays and doilies and chipped plates from well wishers and townspeople.

They had just arrived at the new town, but they had wanted to make sure the circus was not just a temporary attraction, just passing through; Erik and Christine immediately met with local shop owners and community leaders in the town to offer possible partnerships: vendors and shops could sell their wares to the crowds on the circus grounds in exchange for advertising the circus in town. Christine didn’t want their circus to be viewed as an oddity, as a risky and crime-ridden place to mock and ogle their performers, and so far she had been successful. Erik, on the other hand, had been more skeptical of her vision. Nevertheless, while people eyed the masked circus owner with suspicion at first, soon Erik's charm, when turned on, and his head for numbers helped ease their fears.

Firmin had gone quietly last year when Christine and Erik had returned from their visit to Madeline's. At first, when they relayed the story of the circus owner being paid to incarcerate a circus member in a cage, Firmin attempted to deny it. Madeline’s incriminating letter, as well as support from the freak show performers who attested to Erik's innocence solidified their claims of wrongdoing.

There had been debate as to what to do with him; calling the authorities was out of the question. Many did not want the attention of the gendarmes; Erik could also see the benefit of letting Piangi and the others deal with him in their own unique way. Ultimately, the impossible decision was made for them when they awoke one spring morning to find a hastily scrawled apology and the deed to the circus among the discarded, alarming account books in his abandoned caravan.

With the owner run out, and a new owner needed to pick up the pieces of a circus run into the ground by poor management, Marguerite suggested Christine; Christine refused to accept without Erik by her side. Once the letter from Madeline was circulated and it was assured that Erik had never killed his mother, the crew supported their ascension.

Christine watched as Erik managed to cover himself in a thin layer of powdered sugar. Christine pointed. “You’ve got a little–”

“Yes, yes.” He rolled his yellow eyes,but his smile was obvious. She liked him best when he didn’t wear his mask, and despite everything going on today the mask was nowhere to be seen. He was having considerable trouble brushing the white powder from his black shirt, obscenely unbuttoned as it was, and she rose to help him.

“Here–” she rubbed the confectioner’s sugar from the collar of his shirt and popped her finger into her mouth. “Erik Claudin, you’re positively sweet!”

“Careful, I’ll have to tell my wife.”

“Oh!” She shoved against his sturdy shoulder. “I’m not your wife yet.” It was an ongoing conversation, that whole business, but it no longer felt like an oppressive yoke to think about belonging to someone else; they already belonged to each other in every way that mattered. A piece of paper and a few words under the open sky would change nothing. Her father had wanted her safe, and she was safe in Erik’s arms.

He was warmed from the sun under her hands, and his hair had fallen into his face. He closed his eyes when she raked her fingers through it and loved him even more.

“You said she’s alright,” she remembered. “When, do you think?"

Erik laughed. "Not long now. I was just going to check again, do you want to walk with me?"

She was still puzzling over the letter. Maybe a quick walk to the stable would help her organize her thoughts...

Christine smiled at the sunshine, at the people greeting her as she passed. Though her salary afforded her considerably more money now, she dressed simply. It wouldn't be right, she thought, to wear ornate clothing like Firmin used to, showing off; she would rather put the money back into the circus.

New banners outside the tents boasted of the strongest man in the world, of the exquisite bearded lady with a flattering portrait of Marguerite. Christine had asked Erik what he wanted to do, how he wanted to perform; she rolled her eyes every time she passed “The Masked Magician” poster, Erik in a dramatic pose on canvas ten feet tall.

She hadn't wanted a poster; her presence in the show was enough, she argued. But the circus company had outvoted her: they unanimously agreed that the largest poster would be of the girl in glittering skirts and stars scattered on her bodice, in a handstand on her grey horse. “Christine Daae and her Wonder Horses” blazed in gilt letters below Cesar and Cal and Raya prancing enormous hooves above the canvas big top tent, her partner a slim black line in the far background. She hated it publicly; in secret, her heart flipped in excitement.

She didn't need to perform any longer. Her father would have hated it, she knew. But when she had returned after the confrontation with Erik’s mother, she knew she would no longer lose herself to others’ ideas of who she should be: not her father’s, her friends the de Chagnys, not even her own fabricated notion of being a proper woman. She loved performing, and she would do so as long as she continued to love it. When she finally told Erik her plan to perform one night in the dark of the caravan, he had simply given a sleepy grunt and rolled over.

"That's it?" she had protested. “A grumble?”

"I was just waiting for you to realize it," Erik said. "Goodnight." And he fell back asleep, snoring softly.

So that was that, and the poster embarrassed her and excited her, and she had never been happier. But Madeline had been a nagging thought in the back of her mind; how could Christine possibly enjoy happiness when Erik’s own mother felt such animosity toward him?

She held onto his arm tightly; she would make things right. The stable was in view, though, and Madeline would have to wait; more important things were afoot. The horses grazed lazily. Christine always joked that she and Erik spoiled them; Erik agreed with sugar cubes in his pocket.

Raya lifted her head and snorted when she saw her owner jogging toward her. Christine gasped when she saw, behind Raya’s enormous rump, a tiny addition to the herd soaking wet and bloodied in the meadowgrass.

"Erik, you said not yet!" Christine yelped, indignant. She forced herself not to startle the herd with her movement. Behind Raya, Calpurnia stood next to her newborn offspring, chest heaving with the exertion of birth, but proud and well.

Christine climbed slowly over the fence rails. Erik was already looping around to the paddock gate, speaking in the low voice he used with the horses.

Calpurnia snorted and nuzzled Erik’s hand. The foal looked around wildly for his mother and the mare bent her head and began licking his head with her wide tongue, the force of it bending the baby's neck at all angles. Christine laughed from her perch at the top of the fence.

"It's just like her to give birth when no one's around," she said. "She’s not one to ever bother us, I suppose."

"Mhm," Erik smiled, watching the other horses warily. At the far end of the divided paddock, Cesar returned to grazing without a second look at the action on the other side of the fence.

"I see Cesar is taking fatherhood in stride," Christine commented. "I’m not sure he cares much for what’s going on."

Erik joined her at the fence, fidgeting with his shirt collar. "He should be standing by now, why isn't he–"

"Shh," Christine reached for his shoulder to turn him. "He is, look–"

Sure enough the wobbly foal took a tentative step, his legs like unsteady tent poles in a strong wind, struggling to stay upright.

"Oh!" Christine let out a noise of surprise as the baby crashed to the ground, legs collapsing under him. She kept a hand on Erik's shoulder, preventing him from helping. "He’ll be ok, wait –"

He tried again, and then again, until finally he took a crooked step toward his mother, bleating to her. Christine stole a sideways glance at Erik, and chose not to point out the glimmering tears in his eyes as he surveyed the little herd. He found her hand, and she sat on the edge of the fence and held it in her lap.

Change. I don’t like that word, but Erik has changed – not into a monster, like you thought, but he has changed.

Two years ago, Erik was a thief in the night, a desperate boy trying to find his mother by any means necessary. Then, he was a naive, arrogant, pig-headed person who refused to learn anything for fear of looking silly. But now…now, horses come to him because they know he keeps sugar in his pocket and is too generous with it; people come to him with their problems and questions because he is thoughtful and knowledgeable and incessantly curious to learn about everything under the sun. When he asked a once very lost girl to marry him with a handmade ring forged from the silver of her father's bridle, she could say yes and mean it fully, because he would love her for who he always knew she was.

He is no longer a monster, yes, because he was never a monster; but he is also a leader, and a creative, and a genius, and he feels everything so keenly: loss, betrayal...but also love, and support, and he gives it back tenfold, even when people do not ask for it, but because they need it.

I don't expect a response, but I still hope for one, because Erik doesn't think you can change, either; I would like to prove him wrong one last time.

Yours,

Christine Daae