Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Stop the carriage!” cried Christine.

Obediently, it drew to a halt.

“What is it?” asked Marie.

“Listen,” Christine breathed.

The two women listened. Listened to the song wafting in from somewhere off to the left of the road.

“He’s a very good singer, whoever he is,” said Marie, at length.

Christine knew she couldn’t expect Marie to understand. Marie had heard Christine sing, but aside from that knew little of music other than what she’d listened to on Christine’s occasional trips to the opera. But Christine had once been an opera singer herself; she knew that this singer was the finest tenor she had ever heard.

Marie could hear the singing and pronounce it good; Christine could proclaim it as without equal.

Christine opened the carriage door and looked in the direction of the music. A commotion of circus tents, set up by the road, but from beyond the outskirts of the camp, there was no direct line of sight to the singer.

Who is he?

Christine turned to Marie. “I’m going to go and see him. Whoever that singer is.”

“I would advise against that, my lady,” called Martin from where he held the reins. “It wouldn’t be safe for you; you’re dressed too fine.”

“But I have to – I simply have to know. His voice is stunning.” What if the voice stopped and Christine had no way to trace him, whoever the singer might be? Just then, as if he’d heard her thoughts, the singer executed a particularly fine sustained note. The tenors at the Palais Garnier would have killed to be able to produce a note like that.

“I’ll go,” said Marie.

Christine turned to her. “But if it’s not safe for me then it –”

“It’ll be safe for me,” said Marie. “I’m dressed plain enough, and I’m not in livery like the footmen. Out in the circus, I’ll just be a lady’s maid on her day off. Then I can find out whoever’s singing, and you can ask for a private performance. Better to go now, though, while he’s still singing.”

Christine longed to jump down from the carriage and search herself, her finery be damned, but Marie had a point. She moved away from the door to make room for Marie, who climbed down and set off towards the circus.

*

Erik woke the same way he had for the last ten years or so; cold and uncomfortable on the wooden shelf in the caravan, the thin blanket insufficient to keep out the chill. He groped for the waterskin, found it where he’d left it last night, and took a few sips.

He sat on his shelf and ran his fingers through his hair, neatening it a little, not that it would fix anything about his situation. He still clung to a few stubborn bits of pride.

The circus folk fed him rarely, once or twice a day, and if today was a day when he’d get breakfast, they would not be in for hours yet. He kept himself occupied as he always did.

He had no pen or paper, so he wrote the music in his head. Sometimes he’d go months at a time without adding to it, other days it would be all he could do to check the new notes as they flowed through his mind. Either way, it was vital to check it over in his memory and ensure that nothing had been forgotten.

With his eyes gone, he would never write out the score of Don Juan Triumphant, nor would it ever be performed, but it was the only way to pass the time apart from his nightly performances. If one could call them performances. The audience wasn’t there for his song – the song was a feature of the act to make it seem more unique, but all the crowd really wanted was to see his face.

In Persia, he’d worn a mask. The circus folk didn’t let him have one. He had nothing to hide himself with.

At perhaps mid-morning, Erik heard his door slam open, and Valvert, the circus owner, stepped close to Erik and murmured, “Best fucking behaviour, you hear me? You’re doing a private showing, some rich lady wants to see you – real rich, real pretty, plenty of money if we can get her to come back a few times. So best behaviour, see?”

“I see,” Erik spat. I don’t see anything. That’s how you got me. “When is the showing?”

“Now.”

*

Marie had done her best to prepare Christine for what the singer looked like. She’d described it all in detail, so that Christine would not be shocked.

But she was still stunned speechless when she set eyes on him.

The circus owner had gestured herself, Marie, and one of her footmen – Le Fevre – towards the caravan with a showmanlike flick of the wrist.

Inside, the caravan was bare, unadorned wood. A lidless chest by the door held a few items of clothing. There was a half-empty waterskin discarded on the floor. A window let in light at one side through its grimy glass.

At the far end of the caravan was a wooden shelf. Based off the single ragged blanket upon it, this shelf was used as a bed. Christine would have expected more comfort for one of the circus’ most popular acts, but perhaps the Living Corpse was an eccentric who preferred a life of asceticism.

The singer sat on the shelf, facing towards the door, though of course he could not see it.

He looked dead.

His skin had an unhealthy-looking yellowish cast to it, like a mummy from a tomb. His cheekbones were pronounced, the cheeks sunken. He had no nose, and his mouth was a gash, a flat line, no lips to speak of. His hair was black, receding slightly, streaked with grey at the temples.

But his eye sockets…

Most of the singer’s face looked as if he had been born that way – no human hand could form a face like that.

The loss of his eyes had certainly been the work of human hand.

The sockets were empty, but around them were the lines of scars as if from a dagger or some other sharp implement. Christine saw the scars and understood.

He fought them. Whoever took his eyes, he fought against them. He struggled - that’s why the scars are such a mess. He struggled and struggled but it wasn’t enough.

The blind singer still sat there, waiting, facing her. He cocked his head slightly, waiting, and Christine realised he had heard herself, Marie, and Le Fevre enter and shut the door behind themselves. He knew they were there – he did not know anything else, except that a wealthy lady had asked to speak with him in private.

Christine found her voice. “Hello. What’s your name?”

*

His name. The wealthy lady had asked his name.

She had seemed… nervous. But who wouldn’t be, looking at him? Especially some sheltered woman from the upper echelons of Paris.

But why would she care enough to ask his name? Not even the circus members knew his name: none of them had ever asked. He was just the Living Corpse to them – often shortened to simply the Corpse. Erik had expected to be referred to as the Corpse until the day he died.

“My name is Erik.”

“You sing very well, M Erik.”

“Erik is my first name – I have no surname.”

“… I see.”

This was not going how he’d expected. There had been no taunting, no poking him in the face to check it was real, no invasive questions.

“Do you play any instruments?” she asked him.

“The piano, the violin, the organ, and the sitar.”

“I haven’t heard of a sitar before.”

“It’s an Indian instrument. Imagine a lute with a long neck – it isn’t much like that, but there is a vague resemblance.”

“You’ve been to India?”

Why did she care? “Yes. In my teens and into my youth I travelled throughout most of Europe, through India, and eventually into Persia. That’s where I lost my eyes.”

Perhaps referring to his eyes would get things back on track. She would begin to properly gawp at Erik’s hideous face, this meeting would be over with, and Erik could get back to the empty monotony of his existence.

“I’m sorry.”

Nobody had ever told him they were sorry for his injury, not since the daroga had bandaged him up and told him to stop screaming, to stop crying out, because they needed Erik to be silent if they were going to escape Mazenderan alive.

Erik realised he had been silent too long to thank her for her sympathy. If it truly was sympathy. There was still time for this woman to turn nasty. His visitors always did, in the end.

The lady spoke again. “I would like to offer you a job.”

Erik’s head snapped round. He’d been facing her general direction – the direction of the door – but now he was facing the exact direction of her voice. “What?”

“As my resident musician. At my home, I have a grand piano in the music room and an upright piano in the drawing room. Both of them are fine instruments. I can also provide you with a violin. I am Dowager Vicomtesse de Chagny – I have plenty of money. Whatever you earn here at the circus, I can more than match it. Bed and board, too.”

Erik barked a laugh. “They don’t pay me here.”

He sensed more than heard them hesitate. “But my maid, she was in the crowd last night, watching you. She said there were hundreds of people…”

“They don’t pay me because they don’t have to,” Erik told the vicomtesse. “You may notice that my caravan does not have a lock on the door. It doesn’t need one. I have nowhere to go, and, blind, penniless, no means of getting there if I did. Beyond these four walls and the boards of the stage where I perform, I could not find my way. No, Dowager Vicomtesse, they do not pay me.”

“You’re a prisoner.”

“Indeed.”

Erik heard footsteps, the rustle of clothing. He heard Christine ask someone named Marie to move a little, for there was a gap in the doorframe and she wanted to see where the circus owner stood outside the caravan.

“He’s about twenty feet away,” said Christine. “Le Fevre, Marie, you both take a look. Do you think we could make it, if we ran to the carriage?”

More creaks and rustling.

“I’m not sure,” said Marie. “The manager might get to us first.”

“Not if I run right at him while you three run to the carriage,” said a man’s voice – Le Fevre, presumably. “One clean kick between the legs, he’d be down and we’d be away. No – a punch to the jaw. Keep him quiet.”

“Right then,” said the Vicomtesse. “Erik, if I took your hand to guide you, would you be able to run?”

Erik had not run anywhere in about ten years. He had a singer’s lungs, but no idea if his legs would hold up. He did not even know if the Vicomtesse was truthful in her offer to help him escape.

At worst this woman was one of the circus folk playing a trick on him. He’d earn himself a beating for lack of loyalty. At best, she was freedom.

Yet how much worse could his life truly get? He’d taken beatings before.

“I can run,” Erik told her.

“Good.”

A slender gloved hand slid into his and led him forwards, to where he knew the door of the caravan to be.

“We move on three,” the Vicomtesse told him.

She counted down, then he heard the door to the caravan slam open and he was being led down the caravan’s steps at speed. They were running, sprinting across the field where the circus was camped. Behind him, Erik heard a thud of impact and a muffled cry, followed by pounding footsteps.

His legs were burning and he had no idea where he was being led, but he did not slow, not until the Vicomtesse slowed. He heard a door open in front of him, and the Vicomtesse placed his hand on what turned out to be the open doorway of a carriage.

“Climb in,” she said.

Erik took the steps cautiously, having to feel out each one, unsure of the height, until he was fully inside. He groped around and found a seat. The cushions were plush – the fabric felt expensive. Erik knew his clothes didn’t smell – or didn’t smell much, at least – but he wasn’t sure how clean they were. He might be dirtying the Vicomtesse’s cushions.

Well, she had been the one to tell him to get in.

Erik heard the Vicomtesse sit down opposite him, and heard someone else sit beside her, presumably Marie, who he thought was probably a lady’s companion or maid.

“Le Fevre got the circus manager very properly,” Marie said approvingly. “Right on the chin. And what can they do about it? Complain that we helped a man escape when they’d kept him prisoner? They wouldn’t dare.”

The carriage began to move. It was better sprung than his caravan had been, and took the bumps of the road with ease.

Erik wanted to thank the Vicomtesse and her servants, but he didn’t know how. He also wondered if it was too soon – if these people were really as kind as they seemed.

Instead, he said, “Do you have anything I could use to cover my face? If we are going to your house, then I imagine it is in some fashionable part of Paris. It would not do for my face to be seen there.” Erik had been spared his own reflection for the past decade, but he imagined that the scarred sockets of his eyes had not improved his looks.

“You can have my scarf,” said the Vicomtesse.

She pressed it into his hands.

The scarf was wool, finely woven, ridiculously soft. Erik imagined some rich, expensive dye had gone into making it.

When he wrapped it carefully around his face, he found that he was breathing in the Vicomtesse’s perfume.

Chapter Text

Erik sank into the bath and sighed. The warm water was soothing aches he hadn’t realised he had. Muscles loosened, perhaps for the first time in years.

As they entered the Vicomtesse’s house (Erik pictured something grand and fashionable, with high ceilings and tasteful plasterwork), he had heard the Vicomtesse explain that Erik had agreed to be her resident musician; he was to have one of the guest rooms, and clothes must be found for him. A footman named Moreau was hastily promoted to valet to help Erik with his needs.

He had been led up a carpeted staircase and along a corridor. A few turnings later and he was inside what he was told was now his apartment. Moreau led him to the bathroom and ran him a bath: while Erik bathed, Moreau would find him some clean clothes.

The last time Erik had a warm bath, he’d been in Persia, a lifetime ago. The last time he’d had a warm bath, he’d been able to see the steam rising from the water.

Erik had long ago accepted his blindness. What he had not accepted was the loss of independence that came with it. There was nobody he trusted to lead him by the hand, to explain what went on around him. He would have to trust the Vicomtesse and her servants, at least for now. There was still time for his new situation to go wrong, but for now… for now, he could afford to be sybaritic, to let the heat seep into his bones.

After a time, he heard movement in the room next to him – Moreau back with the clothes, he supposed.

Presently, Moreau entered the bathroom and asked if Erik was done with his bath. Erik replied in the affirmative, and was passed a soft towel to dry himself, and after that, a dressing gown.

Moreau led him back into the bedroom.

“You’re taller and thinner than anyone in this house,” Moreau explained, “So the clothes won’t quite fit you, but they’ll serve until new clothes can be made. I found a belt which should make the trousers fit better.”

To Erik’s surprise, Moreau actually helped him dress. Nobody had ever done that before. In the circus, they usually just threw the clothes at him with little warning, and Erik either caught them or felt around for them on the floor. Bathing had involved a pail of cold water left unceremoniously by the door.

Erik was almost tempted to push Moreau away, to say that he’d been dressing himself all his life and he didn’t need help, a jumped-up circus freak didn’t need a valet to dress himself, but he pushed the urge away. After the life he’d lived, he deserved some easy treatment.

Besides, he was the resident musician of a Vicomtesse now. He had to look his best. And after so many years, he was unsure if he could remember how to knot a tie.

Wearing clean, freshly pressed clothes (if a little short in the arm and leg, and loose at the waist, taken in by the belt), Moreau led him over to a small table and pulled out a chair for him.

“I took the liberty of bringing you some lunch. I thought it might be more comfortable for you to eat in your room, while you’re still getting used to your situation.”

“… Thank you.” Manners, Erik. Everyone in this house uses their manners, you had better remember how to use yours.

Erik felt around on the table until he found the plate, and further exploration of the tablecloth showed no cutlery. He started cautiously probing the plate itself. Moreau had brought him sandwiches, cut into triangles.

He picked one up and took a small bite.

Erik had never eaten much. But after far too long of being passed a stale crust of bread and little more, he found that he had something approaching an appetite. He ate two of the sandwiches. By his standards, this was a feast.

“If you would prefer something else, sir, I can ask the kitchen to make it.”

“No – thank you. I never eat much.”

“I see. Sir – the Vicomtesse mentioned that you did not know your way around the last… place you were staying. Might I suggest a tour of the house?”

Was Moreau being tactful about Erik’s past, or was his past considered too shameful for polite conversation? Too early to tell.

“Yes, that would be useful.”

They started with Erik’s rooms, going over the location of each piece of furniture in the bedroom and bathroom. It would take time for Erik to know it by heart, but he did his best to file the information away anyway. Perhaps it helped that he’d once been an architect; he still had the trick of visualising space.

Not that he’d ever be able to design a building again.

With Erik’s rooms done, Moreau offered his arm and they went over the house from top to bottom. Erik noted that the very top floor and very bottom floor were excluded; apparently Moreau didn’t think he’d need to know his way around the servants’ quarters.

Moreau stopped by each room, giving a brief description of its function, and sometimes took Erik inside so he could understand the layout of the principle pieces of furniture.

As they finished the tour on the ground floor, Moreau stopped and said, “Here, sir. The music room. I thought I’d save it for last.”

Erik was led inside.

“Erik, there you are,” called the Vicomtesse from somewhere in front of Erik. “I trust you find your new rooms to your liking?”

Compared to the circus caravan, Erik’s new rooms were palatial. He did not say that, though. He said, “I am sure I will find them very pleasant to stay in.”

“Good, good. May I show you the grand piano?”

Erik nodded his assent, and found that the Vicomtesse was taking his hand – she was no longer wearing gloves, and her skin was soft – and leading him over to the piano. His leg gently bumped the piano stool, and he sat down.

Erik lifted the fallboard, and found himself hesitating.

He hadn’t touched a piano in over a decade. He’d told the Vicomtesse he could still play, he could see all the notes in his head, but what if he couldn’t play? Could his hands still do what they’d once done? He was out of practice, he was rusty. Better not to play at all than to play and find that his skill had deserted him. But then the Vicomtesse might take him for a liar.

Erik touched a single finger to a key. He listened, and used it as reference to find Middle C. He pressed down on his guessed key, and found he was correct – he’d found C.

With that as reference, Erik positioned his hands and began.

He chose a waltz, something slow and easy, something that wouldn’t overwhelm his unpractised hands.

At the start, he felt disappointed in himself. He could hear the slight imperfections, the almost-mistakes he would never have made before the circus.

Until he found it again. That place which was both thought and instinct, and the music flowed. He could still play.

He still had the music.

They had taken his eyes, his freedom, his dignity, but they hadn’t taken his music. Nobody could. It was his alone.

Two minutes into the waltz, Erik wished he’d picked something more complicated, something trickier, so he started adding his own flounces and trills. The piece wouldn’t get more difficult on its own, but he could help it along.

The Vicomtesse must be familiar with the piece, because Erik heard her laugh. She must have noticed what he was doing with it.

Erik found himself smiling. An actual smile. It felt unfamiliar on his mouth. He didn’t know if he’d smiled in years, but now he was in his element.

With the waltz over, the Vicomtesse asked, “Do you know La finta giardiniera? The Tu mi lasci section?”

“I do.” Erik began to play it, his voice and his hands working in concert. He was a fine piano player, and his skill would only return further now that he had the chance to practice, but his voice was the thing the Vicomtesse had taken him in for. Tu mi lasci was a duet – he would sing the male part.

What he had not expected was for the Vicomtesse to join in.

She had a fine voice, a good notion of tuning. Not perfect – Erik got the sense that she was a little uncertain, that a touch more confidence would improve her tone to its full potential, but… ah, what a voice. And with practice, like his piano playing, he knew she would excel.

He finished Tu mi lasci, turned in the Vicomtesse’s general direction and said, “I did not know you sang.”

“I used to be an opera singer,” she told him.

An unusual background for a Vicomtesse. She was unlikely to have been born very wealthy, if she’d sung in the opera. She had married high indeed.

“You have a good voice,” he told her. “Was that why you brought me here? So we could sing duets?” My lady, he should have finished that sentence with ‘my lady’. He was out of practice with more than just the piano.

“Partly,” she admitted to him. “It would not be considered proper for me to sing in the opera anymore, and I’ve missed singing with another person. But I would also be happy to simply hear you sing.”

Erik obliged her with the Wedding-night Song from Romeo and Juliet.

*

Later that evening, after taking a few bites of dinner again in his room, as Moreau helped him undress, Erik said, “Before you have the tailor come to measure me for new clothes, I will need a mask. Black, preferably. With no eye holes, if you can get it. It will need to cover as much of my face as possible.”

“I’ll look into it, sir.”

“Good.”

Something Erik had noticed during the day was a suspicious lack of servants in the corridors during his tour. He suspected that they’d been kept away, by those who’d seen him without his mask and were trying to save the maids a fright. Well, he was no longer a performing freak. His ugliness need not be on show.

*

In the end, Moreau couldn’t find an eyeless mask, but the shadows in the eyeholes of the masks he did find were sufficient to conceal Erik’s scarred sockets. His new mask firmly in place, Erik knew he probably attracted all kinds of odd glances from the tailor who came to measure him, but at least the man avoided impertinent questions.

The clothes came, and fitted to exactitude. Moreau described the colours and styles of his new suits. Erik would not have minded styles that were a little more adventurous, but he was more pleased than he could say to find himself the possessor of a new wardrobe.

The crisp shirts and sleek suits were a world away from the ragged trousers and shirt he’d been dressed in when he arrived. A simple change of clothes could make a man feel so much more human.

*

Erik’s new clothes suited him, Christine thought. It was startling, the contrast between seeing a man in rags and seeing him in a well-fitted dark grey suit and waistcoat. The mask hid his face from her, which made her wonder if he wore it because he preferred to hide his disfigurement, or if he thought she would prefer not to see his face. Or both.

Not being able to see Erik’s face made it harder for her to tell what he was thinking, but she could guess that like her, he was growing more and more frustrated with her lawyer.

The three of them had sat down in her study to draw up Erik’s contract, but her lawyer did not appreciate his client taking in a man who neither gave a surname nor showed his face. He repeatedly insisted that he could not condone drawing up a contract with a person of such uncertain provenance.

In the end, Christine sent him away and sat down behind her desk, frustrated.

“I am sorry,” she told Erik. “Would it be enough for us to talk it out? We already know the terms we want, it’s just we can’t make it formal and legal. We can just go along with our agreement as if we’d managed to get a contract to sign.”

“I’m amenable to that,” Erik said. “Besides, I could never have done much of a job of signing the contract. I haven’t held a pen in ten years, and even when I could see, my handwriting was atrocious.”

Christine smiled at him, then remembered he couldn’t see it.

“It’s stuffy in here,” she remarked, flushing. “Have you been out into the garden yet? Shall we take some fresh air together?”

Erik agreed.

It was a brisk autumn day, but their coats were enough that it didn’t matter. Christine offered Erik her arm, which he took, and he held his cane in his other hand, periodically tapping it on the paved walk in front of him.

With Erik’s gloved hand on her bicep, Christine realised she’d never had a man take her arm before. She’d taken Raoul’s arm plenty of times, but never the other way around.

They had slowly walked some way down the path when Erik said, “Vicomtesse, may I ask, why me? If you wished for a resident musician, you could have chosen a dozen more… acceptable candidates. You did not need to go all the way to the circus to find someone who would play the piano for you.”

Christine hesitated before replying. “In truth, the idea of having a resident musician hadn’t occurred to me until the night before I met you. I heard you sing, and Marie went to find out more about you. When she came back, all I thought was that I wanted to hear you again and again. I forget, sometimes, that I’m a Vicomtesse and can do something like have a resident musician. I’m already very happy that I did it. And – I know I could go out and find more acceptable musicians. Acceptable in the eyes of society, that is. But none of them would sing like you.”

*

The day after his and the Vicomtesse’s failed attempt at getting him an employment contract, Erik woke in his bed.

It was his bed, but he was still unused to it, still woke awash with disorientation at finding himself in a place so warm and soft.

He felt a strange feeling rise in his chest.

He tried to puzzle it out.

Part of it was the bed, the clean, smooth cotton under his fingertips.

Part of it was Moreau, helping him around the house, describing everything to him, from the shape of the mantlepiece to the design of the curtains.

But most if it was to do with the sound of the Vicomtesse’s voice as she snapped at the lawyer for constantly speaking about Erik as if he wasn’t in the room, for behaving as if blindness and poverty rendered Erik unable to comprehend anything around him.

And afterwards, the way she led him around the garden, the way she paused by a late-blooming flowerbed so that Erik could smell it and experience some of the garden’s autumnal beauty, even if he could not see it.

In this house, the Vicomtesse, Moreau, the other servants… they treated him like a person.

They treated him like he was a person.

Erik sat up in bed and pulled the covers up towards him, burying his face in the blankets to muffle the sobs.

Chapter Text

It had been three months, and Erik was in love.

It was enough to render him speechless, on the afternoons when the Vicomtesse took him walking in the garden. When they sang together in the mornings, he found himself habitually turning his head towards her, as if to catch her eye, not that he could.

There was no hope, of course there was no hope. Dowager Vicomtesse Christine de Chagny was rich, titled. Erik the musician came from nothing and would have nothing without her.

From the descriptions of the servants, Erik had built up an idea of what the Vicomtesse looked like in his head. A delineation of her, from what he’d been told of her height and build, her eye colour, the shade of her hair, the tone of her skin. A beautiful young widow.

Erik could compare that with his last memory of his own appearance – a vague thing, given that he had allowed no mirrors in his apartments in Mazenderan – and add on the scars around empty eye sockets. It was only too horrific a contrast.

Yet what to do about his own feelings? In all his years, he had never guarded his heart. He had never thought he would need to.

From his early adulthood onwards, he had sometimes entertained a vague sort of fantasy, that he’d find a woman who loved him for himself and they would marry, settle down in a nice house with large windows, play cards in the evenings and take walks on Sundays. But it had only ever been a fantasy.

Well, he lived in a very fine house now. And he did take walks with the Vicomtesse from time to time.

He ought to be content with that.

He ought to be.

*

Christine was in the drawing room when Erik came to find her. As time went on, he’d grown more confident in moving about the house, his steps lengthening as he became used to the space around him.

There was an uncharacteristic hesitation in his step now.

“Vicomtesse? Are you in here?”

“Over here,” she told him.

Erik came forward, tapping with his cane, until it nudged the side of her foot, and he stopped. He planted the cane on the floor in front of him and rested both his hands on top of it.

“I have been… reserving judgement,” Erik said, his voice strained, tension underlying his words, the air of a confession. “I am not used to human kindness. When you took me from the circus, I did not know what to expect. If it would be an – improvement. Or if I was allowing myself to be pulled into something worse. It is not easy for me to trust.”

Erik took his cane into one hand, moved it to one side, and knelt at Christine’s feet. He set the cane down, and with one hand lifted the mask slightly away from his face, though it was not enough for Christine to see what she knew lay underneath.

With his other hand, Erik reached until he found the skirts of her dress, and he bent down to kiss her hem. “Thank you,” Erik murmured, “For pulling me out of hell.”

Christine bent down, took his hand and held it, pulled him up to sit on the sofa beside her. Moreau had been making a concerted effort to remind Erik to eat, but his hand was still bony, the fingers long and slender, a pianist’s hand. As she drew him up to the seat, Erik replaced his mask.

“Erik, you do not need to do that.”

“I did,” he said, voice full of emotion, “I did.”

Christine picked up his cane and put it into his hand. “You do not,” she said. “I am not one of those ladies who needs ordinary people to abase themselves before me. I am still an ordinary person.”

“I will not take it back,” said Erik.

Christine decided to change the subject. “Is there anything you need? Now that you’ve settled in, you might have more of an idea of what you want, beyond clothes and a mask.”

Christine saw Erik hesitate in the way he held his head. “I…” he hesitated again. “I have composed an opera. On and off for the past twenty years or so. It is called Don Juan Triumphant. I did not expect to ever have it performed. I also cannot write it out. But if some of the servants could learn musical notation…”

“It could be written out. Of course, Erik, I’ll ask around and see if anyone would be interested in learning. And you can play it to me – when you feel ready, of course.”

Erik turned his masked face away from her, as if suddenly shy. “You might not like it, my lady. Sometimes music is gentle, sometimes it makes you weep. But my Don Juan burns.”

*

By now, Erik could find the bellpull in his room first time.

When Moreau opened the door, Erik turned in his general direction and asked, “Do you know what’s happening down below? The Vicomtesse seems to have unpleasant visitors.”

Unpleasant visitors, and unusually late in the day. Raised voices had turned to shouts, but Erik could not quite make out the words.

“Her brother-in-law, Comte Philippe de Chagny, and another man I don’t know,” said Moreau. “The Comte never liked her – he did not want her and the late Vicomte to marry, he did not think an opera singer was worthy of his brother. It did not matter that the Vicomtesse’s virtue was without question. She was too low born for him. But the Vicomte married her in a little church with a priest who was willing to let them be happy, and there was nothing Comte de Chagny could do about it. It was too late.”

“How did the Vicomte die?” Erik asked softly.

“He went on an Arctic expedition. This was about six months into their marriage. He asked the Vicomtesse if she was all right with him leaving her for such a long time; she told him that she was happy for him to pursue his dreams, since once the voyage was over, they’d have all the time in the world. But there was some kind of accident aboard the ship, six weeks into the journey. They sent his body back.”

“It can’t have been easy for her, to lose a doting husband so young.”

“It wasn’t, and she had nobody but us servants to comfort her. The Comte only stopped by to discreetly enquire if she was pregnant. When she told him she was not, he simply stated that the title of Vicomte would therefore pass to one of his sisters’ sons, or one of his own sons if he married and had male children. This is the first time he’s visited her since then.”

“He is unworthy of being related to a lady like the Vicomtesse,” Erik concluded. “It is he who is below her, not the other way around.”

“We all agree,” said Moreau.

About ten minutes later, Erik heard through his open door the sound of the Vicomtesse’s voice raised in the hall.

“Leave! Leave, both of you! You are not welcome here, you will never be welcome in this house again! How can you behave like this and still call yourselves gentlemen?”

There was further commotion, and raised male voices of protest, as Erik presumed the Comte and the other man were shepherded out of the house by several footmen.

He waited until the house was quiet again before he took the stairs down to the main hall. He did not know exactly where the Vicomtesse would be. He tried her study, then the drawing room. She turned out to be in the music room, sitting in one of the large window seats.

From the sound of her voice, she had been crying. No, she wept still.

“Do you wish for company?” Erik enquired, as gently as he could.

“Yes, yes, I would much rather have you here than either of them,” she replied.

Erik felt for the window seat with his hand, then sat beside her.

“That was my brother-in-law,” the Vicomtesse told him, “The Comte de Chagny. Along with a man he wants me to marry. A complete stranger.”

“He expects you to agree to be courted by a man of his own choosing? A man you do not even know?”

“I told them as much – and reminded Philippe that if he were a truly caring brother, he would have visited more than once since the funeral. They looked at me blankly. As if they could not understand why a woman like me would not want to be a wife and mother, since I’ve been out of mourning for nearly a year.

“That was their problem, you see. That man, the one Philippe brought. He did not want to marry me – he did not want Christine de Chagny. He just wanted a woman who would be his wife and bear his children. It would take away my personhood, Erik. I’d lose – oh, I’d lose this house, I’d lose the servants, I’d lose you.

“I knew why Philippe was doing it, of course. The man he’d selected was wealthy, but he was also a plain Monsieur. No title for him. In marrying me off, Philippe would strip the name of de Chagny from me forever, and push me out of the ranks of the nobility for good. Ha! The ranks of the nobility don’t want me anyway. After I married Raoul, society would not let me be around my old friends at the opera, and the gentry would not associate with me either. And Raoul is gone and I’ve been – so – lonely.”

Erik turned his body slightly towards her and reached with his hand, guessing the angle and distance. He found the back of the Vicomtesse’s gown and rested his hand there gently, stroking her back. The smooth silk of the dress moved under his fingers. He could feel the faint structure of her corset underneath.

“I am here,” Erik told her. “I won’t leave you, Vicomtesse. I will never leave you. You will not be alone. I promise.”

“Call me Christine.” After all her weeping, it came out more like a gasp than a sentence.

Erik’s hand stopped moving.

“Please,” she continued. “I’ve tried to get the servants to do it, but they insist on propriety. Since Raoul died, nobody has called me by my first name. It’s been years. People would think it strange if you did it in front of them, but please, when we’re alone, call me Christine.”

Erik took a few slow breaths to prepare himself. He’d do it, of course he would. He knew what it was to go years without hearing your own name. Even if that weren’t the case – could he ever deny Christine anything?

He could not. He could not.

“Of course. Christine.” Oh, he already loved the sensation of her name in his mouth.

“Thank you.”

Then she did the unexpected thing.

She hugged him.

Erik went very still. Nobody had ever held him before, but Christine held him now. It took several seconds for him to remember how to breathe, and when he did so, Christine still held him. He was in the arms of a warm, living person.

A woman who still wept.

Belatedly, Erik hugged her back. Christine’s head rested on his shoulder. Once again, he found himself breathing in her perfume.

How lonely she must have been, to seek comfort in his arms. Very softly, Erik sang to her under his breath. The only thing he had ever been able to offer her was his voice.

As the night wore on, Christine did not speak another word. As Erik worked his way through every gentle song he knew, the weight of her head on his shoulder increased, until he realised she had fallen asleep on him.

Slowly and carefully, he laid her down so that she was curled up in the window seat. What he wanted to do was carry her up to her room and lay her down to sleep on her bed, but he didn’t know the layout of her bedroom at all, and he did not want to risk waking her. Christine needed her rest.

Instead, he fetched a blanket from his own room, and covered her with it to keep her warm. He considered adding a log to the fire in the music room to keep her warm through the night, but he didn’t know if logs were even kept by the fireplace or if the servants simply brought them to rooms at intervals. Besides, blindness and fire did not mix.

He fetched her another blanket instead.

With Christine as warm as he could get her and still sleeping soundly, Erik walked up to his own room, took off his shoes, lay down fully clothed on the bed, and utterly failed to sleep.

Chapter Text

Christine had woken that morning under blankets which she knew came from Erik’s room.

He had sung her to sleep… And let her cry on him, and agreed to call her by her name.

Given the events of last night, today seemed as good a day as any to do something which she had been meaning to do for some time.

She passed Moreau on the way to Erik’s room. The valet was carrying away Erik’s breakfast tray.

“One day,” Moreau remarked to her in passing, “One day, I am going to make that man eat an entire piece of toast.”

She knocked on Erik’s door, and entered.

Erik was seated at the table where he’d just eaten breakfast – if three bites counted as breakfast.

“It’s me,” said Christine.

“Good morning, Christine.”

Christine smiled.

“I have something for you in the music room. Come downstairs with me?”

Erik left his cane in his room and let Christine lead him down by the hand. He’d started going without the cane when he was in the house from time to time; he was getting used to where everything was, and his mental map was sound.

Down in the music room, Christine placed Erik’s hand on top of a violin case which had been placed on a side table.

“I said I would get you a violin. This used to be my father’s. Did you ever hear of Gustave Daaé?”

“Yes. From what I heard, he was highly skilled.”

“He was my father.”

“Gustave Daaé’s violin. A precious loan indeed – I say loan, not gift. I won’t ever own this, Christine. It was your father’s – it should always be considered yours.”

Erik opened the case and explored inside, found the violin and took it out. He plucked the strings, then turned the pegs, tuning it to his satisfaction. He set it down again, took up the bow, tightened the horsehair, and asked, “Is there rosin?”

Christine pressed some into his hand, kept in a cloth so it would not get on his fingers.

He rosined the bow, put the rosin in the violin case, picked up the violin, and raised it to his shoulder to play.

It was The Resurrection of Lazarus, which her father had sometimes played when he was feeling especially sad.

Erik’s skill was divine.

Christine tilted her head back, closed her eyes, and breathed the music in.

*

Erik was playing Gustave Daaé’s violin when he heard a knock at the music room door.

He stopped playing, and a maid’s voice said, “Sir, there’s a foreign gentleman here, asking to see you. He gave a name but I – don’t know if I can pronounce it.”

“Show him in.”

Erik put the violin carefully back in its case.

Moments later, he heard footsteps outside the music room which were somehow faintly familiar.

The door opened.

“Erik.”

“… daroga?”

“When I heard the rumours, I thought it was you. Then I heard you playing the violin from the hallway, and I was certain.”

The daroga came forward and clasped Erik’s hand. “I thought you were dead. May Allah forgive me, I should not have stopped searching for you. Did you really end up in a circus?”

“For about ten years, yes. These days I find myself in a more comfortable setting.”

“You enjoy it, then? Working for the Vicomtesse?”

“Yes, I enjoy it. How long have you been in Paris?”

“Years, Erik. You must visit me, sometime. I have a little apartment; I am fond of it. It shall be refreshing to talk with someone who actually bothers to pronounce my name correctly.”

Erik tutted. “I shall try and teach the maids how to say it, so they get it right when next you visit.”

*

When Erik heard the front door open, he assumed that Christine was back early from her appointment with the modiste. Perhaps the styles she’d been shown were all unappealing, or maybe she’d very quickly found exactly what she wanted.

This assumption was proven false when he heard a man’s raised voice, and Erik’s hands stilled upon the piano.

The door to the music room slammed open.

“You. Musician. I would speak with you.”

Erik raised his head in the direction of the speaker. “And you are?”

“The Comte de Chagny.”

“Ah. The Vicomtesse’s brother-in-law.”

Erik stood, picked up his jacket from where he’d left it beside him on the piano stool, put it on and buttoned it. He was not going to face this man in a state of undress.

Erik opened his mouth to make another remark, but the Comte got there first.

“Two weeks ago, the Vicomtesse was made an offer of marriage by a very eligible, rich man. She refused him.”

“Perhaps she did not want to marry him. From what I understand, she holds the memory of your brother very sacred. Not that I ever had the pleasure of meeting the late Vicomte.”

The Comte scoffed at him. “It was foolish of her to turn down such a man. She is still fairly young, but will not remain so. I am trying to be a good brother-in-law by providing her with a suitable match.”

He spoke as if Christine were dirt upon his shoe. This man seemed to think that the only suitable match for Christine was somewhere in the gutter; Erik had the distinct sense that the Comte de Chagny considered even the Monsieur he’d found to be above Christine’s station.

“She probably did not like him,” Erik said matter-of-factly. “These things cannot be forced, you know.”

The Comte continued as if Erik had said nothing. “Then I began to think about why the Vicomtesse would turn down such a man. It would be very easy for her to hide a lover in plain sight if, for example, he wore a mask and claimed to be disfigured. I have enquired into you, sir. You have no past, not even a family name. I would see what is under that mask, so I will know if my deduction is correct.”

Erik realised that his hands had unconsciously balled into fists. He forced himself to relax them, and then forced himself to adopt an air of insouciance. “So you want to know if I have looks, is that it? Well, it is a simple enough thing to prove.”

Erik reached up and removed the mask.

He heard the Comte’s horrified indrawn breath.

“Very handsome, aren’t I?” said Erik. “Really, you ought to be thankful that I wear the mask, or otherwise your dear sister-in-law would not be able to resist my charms. Why, if it weren’t for the mask, I would not be able to walk through the house without maids throwing themselves at me. I’d be a Don Juan without any effort at all.” Erik drew himself up to his full height. “I do hope you’re still looking at me, my dear Comte. My face is a rare sight indeed – made rarer still by the scars and the empty sockets.”

“Monster!” snarled the Comte. “Wretch!”

Erik heard the harsh stamp of footsteps as the Comte left the house.

“… well,” said Erik to himself, “My parents thought the same thing.”

*

Christine knew something was wrong as soon as she entered the house.

Erik was in the music room, thundering away on the grand piano, playing a piece she had never heard before.

It did not take long for Christine to realise it must be Erik’s Don Juan Triumphant. At first it seemed to her to be an extended sob, a magnificent, drawn-out cry of anguish. Then, gradually, she heard the music express the fullness of its layers and complexity. It seemed to be portraying every suffering a person could ever feel, every moment of pain.

At that sound, Christine could only draw closer.

Erik stopped playing when he heard her enter. He stood and turned away from her. She realised that he had not been wearing the mask, and was deliberately sparing her the sight of his face.

Erik’s mask was on the top of the grand piano; he picked it up and put it on before he turned towards her.

“What happened?” asked Christine. Something, something must have happened. Something awful.

“A visit from the Comte de Chagny. He seemed to think that we were lovers, and that under this mask I was a terribly handsome fellow. I took off my mask to disabuse him of that notion, and he went away again.”

“I – I’m sorry. I know how he can be. Especially with people he considers inferior.”

Erik sat back down on the piano stool, this time facing away from the piano and towards Christine. “I dealt with it. I am familiar with the particular cruelties of powerful men. It’s how I –” He made a gesture with one hand, indicating the vicinity of his eyes.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” said Christine gently, “How did…?”

Erik took a steadying breath. Christine could see the tension he held in his shoulders.

“The circus you pulled me from,” he began, “Was not the first time I had been put on show for the masses. I ran away from home when I was a child, and displaying myself was the easiest way to make money. I picked up other skills as I travelled about – music especially, but other things too. Eventually, I attracted the notice of the sultana of Mazenderan, and I went to entertain her at court. There, I turned my interests to architecture. I designed a palace for the Shah, full of hidden doors and secret corridors. Stairways you’d never guess were there. Oh, how I loved it – the trickery of it all, the misdirection.

“When the palace was complete, the Shah decided he did not want to risk my leaving him for another ruler, to build a similarly splendid palace for a rival. When the men came for me, I tried to fight. There were too many. They held me down, and I saw the knife. In that moment, I thought they were going to take my tongue, and I struggled harder. But it was my eyes they took.

“They left me lying on the ground, my whole world dark. Sometime later, the daroga came and found me. He bandaged up my eyes. By some miracle, I escaped infection. But the daroga was also there to tell me that the Shah had changed his mind. Even blind, I could still tell others about the secrets of his palace. My death had been ordered. The daroga got me out. We escaped together; he would have been punished for saving my life.

“I can remember little of those early days. The pain was too great. I remember boarding a boat; I remember lying in a hammock thinking that I would surely die of the pain. The daroga gave me sedatives whenever some could be found, but he could never find enough for the relief to last.

“We changed boats several times. We were in some large port when we were separated, I know not how. From that point, all I could do was beg for food on the streets. My face and my blindness could move some to enough pity for me to get by. Some days later, the circus folk took me. I was in no state to resist.”

Erik sighed. “And then, I suppose the next significant thing to happen in my life was when a woman stepped into my caravan and offered me a job.” He tried to make the last sentence sound light-hearted, and failed utterly.

Christine came forward and took his hand. “I am sorry for it, for all of it. I am sorry that you have been so unhappy, Erik. But I am glad to have you here with me now. If you had stayed in Persia, we would never have met.”

“I am… glad of that, too, Christine.” Erik drew a shuddering breath. “They… weren’t even pretty… have you noticed that nearly everyone gets told they have lovely eyes, even if the rest of the person is ugly? My eyes were yellow, and in the dark they reflected the light like a cat’s. As a child, I did not realise how unusual that was. It was only when I’d seen more of the world that I realised it was yet another part of me which did not look normal. They were not beautiful. But they were the only part of my face that ever looked alive.”

Christine squeezed his hand. “You’re alive, Erik.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever felt that way. I have lived through too much.”

“You are alive to me. I know that you are alive.”

She leaned down and kissed the top of his head, before she let go of his hand and left the room.

Erik leaned forward and put his head into his hands, his shoulders shaking with emotion, for once very glad that he could produce no tears. When he finally felt able to sit upright, he unconsciously clutched his left hand in his right, feeling the place on his fourth finger where there was no wedding ring. And there never would be.

*

Christine had been shaken to find out that Philippe had visited Erik. She could easily imagine the way Philippe would have spoken to him, and Christine had not been there to stand up for her friend.

It had been another reminder of the divide between Erik and the rest of the world. Within the house, he had been accepted among the servants, who had acquired an appreciation for Erik’s eccentricities and an exasperation that, no matter what he was served for lunch, he would only eat about a quarter of it.

Christine waited for an evening when she expected most of fashionable society to be doing other things, and she took Erik for a walk by the river. She thought he might appreciate getting out of the house; she thought he might enjoy the breeze.

They linked arms and walked along, meeting nobody.

Erik was very quiet. In the end, Christine asked him if he was enjoying the walk; if he wanted to turn back.

“I am enjoying this,” he promised her. “I have not done anything like this before. It’s… simple, I know. But I do not often get the chance to enjoy ordinary experiences. This is a very ordinary pleasure. We can walk as far as you like.”

Christine looked up at him, up at the black mask with the dark, empty holes, made for eyes which Erik no longer possessed. For a brief moment, she could imagine a pair of yellow eyes looking down at her, shining gold in the dark.

Chapter Text

“How is the score coming along?” asked the daroga. They were seated in the daroga’s drawing room in his apartment. Christine had insisted on letting Erik take her carriage there.

Erik sipped his tea – the proper kind of tea. The daroga had always known the right way to take tea. “It’s about three quarters written. I’m trying not to be frustrated with the pace. If I were writing it on my own, I could work at it day and night with hardly a break. But since I’m dictating it to other people – one of the maids or footmen – the work has to take breaks. Still, it is more than I ever thought the world would see of Don Juan Triumphant.”

“Have you played any to the Vicomtesse?”

In that moment, Erik was very glad that Darius was not in the room – Erik would never have removed his mask to drink the tea if he hadn’t been alone with the daroga. Erik and the daroga had been conversing in Farsi, but Darius was Persian too, and Erik had caught something in the tone of the daroga’s voice which made him… cautious.

“A little. From time to time.”

“You’re fond of her.”

“How could I not be? Everything she has done for me, and the music we make together… what is there not to be fond of?”

Erik heard the daroga sigh. “I know you, Erik. I know that I’ve never heard you speak about anyone the way you talk about the Vicomtesse. I may not be the type to fall in love, and once I did think you were of the same kind as me, but you’re not, are you?”

For a brief moment, Erik did not breathe, until he finally managed to choke out, “Tell me it isn’t obvious.”

“It’s not. It took me some time to figure it out. I doubt anyone else could.”

“She is the best thing to ever happen to me. The very best thing, daroga. Though it’s a hopeless business. She’s still in love with the chap she was married to, the one who died. From what I understand he was terribly dashing, and young, and rich, and every good thing. I am reconciled to have only her friendship. I expect we shall both spend the rest of our lives devoted to music.”

Erik heard the clink of the daroga setting down his cup, then the rustle as the other man got to his feet. The daroga patted Erik firmly on the shoulder. “If it’s as hopeless as all that, then don’t torture yourself over it, my friend. Don’t put more greys in your hair over something you won’t have.”

Erik turned his head in the daroga’s direction. “There’s grey in my hair?”

“A few streaks at your temples. Don’t worry – I’m going grey too. I’m sure it’s considered distinguished.”

Erik huffed. “You know,” he said drily, “I don’t think I’m even young enough to claim it’s premature.”

*

When Christine gave Erik the news that the Palais Garnier managers had agreed to show Don Juan Triumphant for the next season, he had sat down and said nothing for a full five minutes.

Christine had got the sense that he had told himself it would not happen, so that he would not be disappointed when the answer was no. But the answer had not been no.

Once he was over the shock, Erik had rapidly swung towards a frenetic excitement which Christine found endearing. He spent so much time in a state of calm control; seeing him ecstatic was something rare and new.

They were still undecided on whether Erik would attend the first performance. Navigating a full opera house whilst blind would be difficult and disorienting, even with Christine, Moreau, and Marie there to help him along.

In the meantime, Christine managed to talk their way into one of the last dress rehearsals before the production officially opened. They were seated in Box Five – Christine and Erik, with Moreau and Marie for propriety.

The music was divine. Over the past months, the tunes had become familiar to Christine as she and Erik sang and played their way through them. But that was very different from hearing them with the power of a full chorus and the acoustics of an opera hall. Though Erik did lean over to her once or twice and murmur that Christine could have sung the main soprano part much better than La Carlotta.

They sat in silence through the final aria. Erik had written Don Juan as a tragedy, but as much as the music could make a person weep, Christine could hold back neither her elation nor her pride. Erik had spent most of his life in the shadows. Now the world would know what he could do.

As the final notes faded, a few of the opera staff who’d been sitting in the audience, listening, broke out into spontaneous cheers and applause.

Erik was up from his seat and out of the box like a shot. He did not even take his cane.

Christine went after him, barely aware of her own body’s movement, following Erik as if pulled by magnetism.

By the time she caught up to him, he was most of the way down the corridor, one arm outstretched, his palm flat against the wall.

“What’s wrong? Erik, are you unwell?”

“It’s… the cheers… I… they were cheering… whooping… just like the circus… I can’t go back to the circus, Christine… The first time I went willingly… The second time by capture… A third time would kill me… It would kill me…”

“You won’t go back. We agreed you would never go back.” Christine put a protective arm around his shoulders. “They were cheering you, Erik. You’re a genius, and in a week all of Paris will know it. Now, what do you need, what will help? I can get Moreau to fetch you a glass of wine.”

“No, I… I need air. I can’t breathe, this is choking me…”

“I’ll take you outside.” Not to the front of the opera house. Too many people might see Erik’s distress on the way. Instead, Christine took Erik by the arm and led him through passages and up stairways she had not taken in years, but she still remembered the way.

*

They emerged onto the roof, and Erik felt the cold air rush down his throat like a tonic.

It wasn’t enough, though. He let go of Christine’s arm. “Don’t look at me.”

He took a few careful steps forward across the flat roof, knelt down, and pulled off his mask, gasping down the cool air like a drowning man.

He heard Christine’s footsteps behind him.

“Don’t look, Christine!” He was just about recovering, but not if Christine saw his face. Not if that happened. He set the mask down on the roof, and braced his hands on his knees, tried to focus on his breathing.

“I’ve seen your face before, Erik. Please let me comfort you.”

“No, it is different, it is different now.”

Christine’s footsteps stopped. “Why is it different?”

“Because you don’t love me!” Erik cried. “You don’t love me! You don’t love me! You are still in love with your handsome boy!”

He had ruined it. He knew he had ruined it. The comfortable ease of their friendship, the happy hours spent making music together. All of it gone because he had been foolish enough to fall in love.

Silence on the rooftop. The silence stretched out.

“Christine?” Erik murmured, “Are you still there?”

He did not think he had heard her leave, but he could also imagine her silently slipping away. Fleeing the monster.

The swish of fabric as Christine sat down beside him.

Erik thought he heard another sound too – a soft sound.

“Christine, are you crying? Don’t cry.” It hurt to know that she might be crying.

“I’m not crying – well, maybe a little.”

“I suppose everything shall change now,” said Erik numbly. “I shall move in with the daroga, or some such thing.”

“No you won’t,” said Christine.

She took Erik’s jaw in her hand and turned his head slowly but firmly to face her.

Erik waited for whatever came next.

She kissed him. On the mouth. He, Erik, was being kissed on the mouth. There was a woman kissing him – kissing him – Christine was kissing him.

His chest felt too tight. He did not know what he was doing, he had never done this before. The kiss broke off briefly, Erik was still too stunned to move, and she kissed him again. This time he thought he had more of an idea of how it was done. Christine tilted her head and Erik quite naturally turned his head with her.

She no longer held his face in her hand… Erik did not know when she had let go… but he knew what time of day it was, and Christine was kissing him in broad daylight. She could see his face and had kissed him still.

A third kiss – her tongue in his mouth. Erik ventured to place his hand on her waist, to steady himself. Christine’s hands were on his shoulders. He leaned against her.

Her lips were soft and sweet against his mouth. Erik did not know how Christine could bring herself to do this, how he could have this. Surely he had surpassed his allotted portion of happiness in life.

Yet when they pulled apart again, the only sound the sound of each other’s breathing, Erik found that he was not dead after all.

*

Christine had told Erik he looked very fine in his dress-suit. She could tell he did not really believe her, but she could also tell he enjoyed wearing the suit and the opera cloak which went with it. Christine herself thought him elegant. He was far thinner than was considered fashionable for a man, but she did not mind. He was her Erik.

In order to avoid the crowds, they had arrived at the opera unfashionably early for the opening night of Don Juan Triumphant, once again taking Box Five. Moreau and Marie had taken their cloaks before they sat.

Christine glanced at Erik, seated beside her, his face hidden by the black mask.

She had seen him without it many times in the past few weeks, though Erik sometimes asked her if she was sure she wanted him to take it off.

That had been the theme, too, of what he’d said to her the first time they were alone together after the kisses on the rooftop. They had both stood, Christine had straightened their clothing, Erik had replaced his mask, and she had led him back down to where Moreau and Marie were waiting. Christine had explained that Erik had been briefly taken ill and needed air, but he was alright now.

She had so badly wanted to talk to him in the carriage, but Marie was there with them, so there was no privacy. In the end, Christine asked Erik to join her for dinner. Usually he took dinner alone in his room.

Erik had entered the dining room, Christine had told him they were alone, that she had wanted them to have some time alone together this evening, and Erik had replied, “Are you sure you want that, Christine? Are you sure it is I that you want?”

She had told him he was sure, though even after a few weeks of catching time alone to slip into each other’s arms, Erik was still nervous, still easily overwhelmed.

Before he had confessed his love for her, Christine had once or twice wondered if Erik had ever loved someone, and been loved in turn. If there had ever been a woman in his past – perhaps some woman of the circus who’d been kind to him, or some lady of the court of Mazenderan who’d wanted something other than a pretty face.

From the first time she kissed Erik, she’d known there had been no-one. She, Christine, was his very first. Every step he took with her brought him into uncharted territory. She had to be patient with him, gentle, work her way towards each new step of intimacy before she took it.

In the last few days, when she flirted with him, Erik had begun to flirt back, albeit cautiously. They were making progress. They would go further.

During the dress rehearsal they’d attended, Christine had kept silent, allowing Erik to hear the full force of his music, performed not as a duet with only a piano, but with the totality of the opera’s capabilities.

Now that he’d heard his opera all the way through once, Christine spent the performance occasionally filling him in on other things he would not have experienced. She described the costumes, the dances, the acting choices, the set design and techniques of set changes. She wanted to make sure that Erik experienced as much of his opera as possible. Tonight was his night.

When the final chords rang out into the packed auditorium and the cheering began, Christine took Erik’s hand, letting him know that she was there. Erik clutched her hand tightly.

“I can bear it,” he murmured to her, too quiet for anyone else to hear. “I can bear it.”

In order to avoid getting overwhelmed by the crowds, Christine had selected a room where people could meet the composer of the opera if they wanted. It was not too large, with a door at the front and at the back so Erik would not have to push his way through the crowd if he wanted to leave.

He was unused to being so out in the open; this was nothing like the circus stage. His mask was a curiosity, but Christine watched as, for the first time, Erik experienced public appreciation. He was complemented on his skill, found words to thank people, preened a little.

Christine herself stood a little way off, with Marie to act as her chaperone. Moreau stood at Erik’s elbow to act as guide.

Christine was worried about getting too close to Erik in so public a setting. Yes, they’d shared a box, but in the early flush of requited love, she was not quite sure she could hide it in a public room. She settled for watching Erik receive praise from a safe distance.

“Christine!”

Christine turned at the familiar voice. “Meg? Meg!”

Yes, it was Meg Giry, dressed finer than Christine had ever seen her.

“Oh Christine, it’s been so long. I’m married now, you see. I’m the Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac! That’s my husband over there.” She gestured to where a serious-looking man stood with a group of other serious-looking men. He inclined his head in Meg’s direction. “I know he looks frightfully austere, but he’s really so very sweet.”

“I wondered why you weren’t among the ballet. Congratulations.”

The congratulations for Meg’s marriage seemed to remind Meg of Christine’s. Her face fell. “Oh, but Christine, I’m so sorry about the Vicomte. I wanted to visit you after it happened, but I knew it would not have been allowed. Little ballet dancers like me didn’t get to visit Vicomtesses.”

“We’re together again now, Meg. That’s what matters.”

“Have you been terribly lonely? I hate the idea of you being alone.”

“I was alone,” said Christine truthfully, “For quite a long time. But not anymore; I have Erik now.”

Chapter Text

Late spring in the Swedish mountains. Erik was lying back on the blanket they had laid out on the soft grass of a hill, his head in Christine’s lap. It was a warm day for spring; he’d taken off his coat and left it folded beside him on the blanket.

They had left the house they’d rented that morning with a picnic basket – officially, Erik’s reason for joining Christine on the walk was to carry her basket – and Christine had guided him out of the village and up the path, fresh mountain air in his lungs.

Once they were far enough away from civilisation not to be seen, Erik’s mask was placed in the picnic basket too, and he could feel the sun and the breeze on his face. They moved closer together to walk arm in arm.

As they walked, Erik had listened to Christine reminisce about her childhood in Sweden, listened to the birds in the hedgerows, listened to the wind in the nearby trees.

Now that he lay in her lap, Christine told him of the view from the hill, the landscape stretched out below them, the mountains reaching to the sky, the blue sky itself and the scudding of clouds across it.

On their walk to the hill, Erik had thought to himself that they were just like lovers, before he reminded himself that they were lovers. Even after most of a year, that fact still surprised him.

There were restrictions, of course. They would never be able to acknowledge their relationship in public; marriage and children were out of the question. But when they were alone together, they were free to do as they wished.

The first few times Christine came to his bed, Erik had been shy and fumbling, his inexperience embarrassingly obvious. She had been patient with him.

It had been worth it, to keep trying, to please her. To know that he was improving and, afterwards, to curl up with her in his bed.

In Paris, Christine would always wait about ten minutes – longer if they were talking together – before slipping out of bed, picking up her candle, and going to her own bed to sleep the rest of the night. It would not do for her to be caught with him.

The candle had been something of a surprise, too. He’d asked about it, why she didn’t extinguish it so she didn’t have to look into his empty eye sockets as they made love, and Christine had said, “I like to see you.”

Now that they were on holiday in Sweden, they had more freedom still. They had taken only Marie, Moreau, and Le Fevre. Fewer people in the house where they stayed meant fewer people to catch them together.

The first night, as Christine lay with her head on Erik’s chest, he’d whispered, “Don’t fall asleep on me. I’m too bony for it to be comfortable, and we don’t want you to be seen with me like this.”

Christine had kissed his sternum and replied, “I’ll slip out early in the morning,” and promptly fell asleep on him two minutes later.

It was later that week when Moreau was tying Erik’s tie and remarked, “I’ve chosen the silver-grey one today, sir. The Vicomtesse is fond of how it looks on you.”

Erik had frozen and said, quietly, “You know.”

He’d suspected that Marie knew, for Marie was the one who made sure Christine was supplied with reliable contraception. But not Moreau. They had always been careful in front of him.

“A few of us servants know,” Moreau had replied.

“And you haven’t said anything.” If their relationship had been exposed, Erik and Christine would have known. All of Parisian high society would be in uproar.

Moreau made a soft noise under his breath. “I’ve known the Vicomtesse since she married the Vicomte. That means I also saw how she was after the Vicomte died, and then how she became after you came to live with us. You’ve made her very happy, and you’re better for her than some rich man who’d use her for making heirs, and either treat us like dirt or dismiss us from service entirely. No, it’s far better for her to have you.”

*

Erik reached up until he found Christine’s hand. He pressed it to his mouth, then simply held it. Christine gave a soft laugh, then continued describing the scenery. Erik let her words wash over him.

With her hand in his, Erik could feel the ring he had given her, plain gold on her little finger. He could never give her a wedding ring, but he could give her a token of his love.

Christine had given him a ring too. A signet ring, which he also wore on the little finger of his left hand. It was engraved with a capital E, stylised to look like two interlocking ‘C’s. Nobody needed to know that it stood not only for Erik, but for Christine de Chagny.

Wearing it made Erik feel very… married. Yes, that was the right word.

There would never be a priest or a ceremony, no signatures on a marriage certificate. Yet they belonged to each other. Nothing could change that.

“Erik, are you still listening?”

“Yes, dear. I was also thinking.” He played with her hand in his. “Would it be terribly sentimental for my next opera to be a pastoral?”

“What’s wrong with a little sentiment?”

“My thoughts exactly. I shall think on it, and see if I have anything worth setting to paper when we return to Paris.”

“Erik?”

“Yes?”

“Sit up.”

He did so, then turned so that he could take her hand again. “Why did you need me to sit up?” he asked. He had been very comfortable with his head in her lap. He could have stayed there all afternoon.

Christine put her arms around his neck and kissed him. Erik leaned into it, smiling against her mouth, letting the moment draw out.

“Ah,” he said, at length, “Sentiment.”

Chapter Text

Article by Blanche Écrire

For all that Erik was one of the most highly acclaimed composers of the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, for some time, little has been known of his early life.

Erik was certainly not his birth name, and he never gave a surname. From the writings of the daroga of Mazenderan, who was a great friend of Erik’s and spent the latter decades of his life in exile in Paris, we know that he was from Rouen, that his father was a master mason, and that parental rejection caused him to run away from home at an early age.

From then on, he travelled, through Europe and into India, and then to Persia, where he took on architectural commissions at the court of Mazenderan. Not wanting to risk Erik using his skills in the service of another ruler, the Shah had Erik blinded. Fearing for his life, Erik fled the country with the daroga’s aid.

He then disappears from all record for roughly a decade, until he re-emerges as the resident musician to the dowager Vicomtesse de Chagny.

Christine de Chagny was herself an opera singer until she was elevated by her marriage. Her husband died tragically young, leaving her on her own. She employed Erik after hearing him sing at a circus. Sometime after he took up residence with her, she informed her servants that if any of them wished to supplement their wages, they could learn how to write music in order to record Erik’s compositions.

Early the next year, Erik’s first opera, Don Juan Triumphant, was performed at the Palais Garnier, and took the music world by storm.

Aside from when he chose to grace Box Five of the Palais Garnier, Erik stayed out of the public eye. This was not difficult; he never removed his mask, claiming some great deformity, and his blindness made him doubly off-putting to the rich and the beautiful of upper-class circles. Instead, he chose to keep to the calm retirement of the Vicomtesse de Chagny’s house, the exception being their occasional holidays to take the mountain air in the Vicomtesse’s native Sweden.

Some rumoured that he and the Vicomtesse were lovers, but these rumours were never confirmed. Christine de Chagny’s past as an opera singer opened her up to accusations of licentiousness.

Regardless of whether their love was romantic or platonic, the two were devoted to one another, to the point where, upon Erik’s death in the mid-nineteen-twenties, Christine insisted upon his being buried in the de Chagny family mausoleum.

Had he been alive at the time, Comte Philippe de Chagny would certainly have vetoed this – he was incensed by rumours that Erik was his sister-in-law’s lover – but the Comte predeceased Erik by over two decades, and the Comte’s surviving sister was more lenient. It probably helped that by then, Erik was a composer of great acclaim.

With permission from the relevant authorities, it is possible to visit the mausoleum today and see where Christine de Chagny was laid to rest with her first husband. Erik’s grave is next to them. His epitaph simply reads “Here lies Erik”.

But how do we know anything at all about Erik’s life before he stepped into the limelight with Don Juan Triumphant?

For this, we have one woman to thank: Christina Castelot-Barbezac.

Christine de Chagny died without issue, and aside from a few charitable donations set aside in her will, everything she owned passed to her lifelong friend, the Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac, who was a ballet dancer at the opera contemporary to when Christine de Chagny was a soprano. Her descendant, Christina Castelot-Barbezac, has now donated several of these personal effects to the National Academy of Music.

These include a sitar and, in excellent condition, the violin first owned by Gustave Daaé – Christine de Chagny’s father – and later by Erik himself, as well as two of Erik’s canes, one of which has “To E from C C” inscribed on the handle in Braille.

There are also several precious original scores, including the score of Don Juan Triumphant. A rough ‘E’ is written on the cover of each score in red ink: Erik’s signature.

Just as rare and just as precious are recordings of Erik and Christine de Chagny singing. Some are individual recordings, others are duets. These seem to have been recorded privately, for Erik and the Vicomtesse’s own enjoyment. The recordings are being digitised and will be available to download from the website of the National Academy of Music. They represent some of the finest examples of opera singing on record. There is also an excellent recording of The Resurrection of Lazarus, played on the violin, presumably by Erik.

Also donated to the National Academy, and also in the process of being digitised are the daroga’s private journals. Also known as ‘the Persian’, his writings are a great insight into late nineteenth-century French society from the perspective of an outsider.

A painting of the Vicomtesse de Chagny, done in her early twenties, will be on display, as well as a group photograph showing Christine de Chagny, the Baronne de Castelot-Barbezac (once known as Meg Giry), her husband the Baron, and a masked man who could only be Erik.

One donation, will, however, not be open to viewing by ordinary visitors to the Academy.

This is a unique historical find; it is the only known image of Erik’s face.

The item is a diptych photo frame, hinged at the centre. One side contains a photograph of Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, a handsome man in his early twenties. The photograph on the other side shows a very thin man with extensive facial irregularities consistent with the description given by the few who ever saw Erik’s face – and were willing to describe his appearance to others.

He has no eyes, and his sockets are heavily scarred.

Erik had no wish for his appearance to become public spectacle. In accordance with this, only a select few will be permitted to see the photo, after passing several requirements to ensure that the prospective viewer will treat the image with due respect.

I myself was allowed to look, but aside from what I have already written, I will not describe his appearance further other than to say that, while his expression was enigmatic, he was not, I think, unhappy.

It is a shame that the photograph cannot be made public, but in this age of the internet it is unlikely that such a disfigurement would be treated with respect. Perhaps in some future time, less burdened with obsession over physical beauty, this photograph can be shown to the world as simply the image of a great composer.

*

“I simply don’t understand why you want a photograph of me,” said Erik. “You see me every day – and now you want to see me even when I’m not in the room with you? I certainly wouldn’t make a pleasant picture.”

“I want a photograph of you, that’s all,” said Christine gently. “Just one. I have everything set up. You would only need to sit down and stay still while I took the picture. Please, Erik.”

“… Very well.” Erik reached for Christine’s waist, found it, and put his hands on her hips. “But only because I love you very much.”

“I love you too.”

Erik leaned down and kissed her. After ten years, it still thrilled him.

“Now,” said Christine, “Sit in the chair, and keep very still.”

*

Imagine, if you will, a youngish man. He’s not sure of his exact age, but if asked, he’d make up a number between twenty-five and thirty. It wouldn’t be too far wrong.

He lies in a hammock in a cabin that his only friend in the world has paid for, as they sail away from the careers each had built for themselves, away from a powerful man who didn’t know how to trust.

His sockets ache from where his eyes are gone. His best friend changes the gauze twice a day, then presses the back of his hand against the youngish man’s forehead, wary of any sign that could mean fever. The pain in his head makes it hard to sit upright, impossible to focus. He barely eats and his friend watches in concern as the man, already thin, grows thinner.

When it can be found, medicine is pressed into his hand and guided to his mouth, and, for a time, in oblivion, he sleeps.

Screaming didn’t dull the pain, so he has long since lapsed into silence. Besides, his voice is the only asset left to him; it wouldn’t do to ruin that, too.

The loss of his sight has reduced the world to sound and touch. He can feel the cotton of his shirt, the rough blanket over his legs, the hammock beneath him, holding it up. He can hear the creaking of the ship, the distant cry of gulls, a faint rustling from the other side of the cabin as his friend reads through a sheaf of papers.

With his sight taken from him, the youngish man cannot comprehend much of a future. He is an invalid now. A world that recoiled from him in his ugliness is now so far away as to be untouchable.

The youngish man lies in his hammock and thinks he does not have a future.

He has no idea how lucky he’s going to be.

*

Imagine, if you will, a man. He’s not sure of his exact age, but if asked, he would not pretend at youth – he’d make up a number between forty-five and fifty. It wouldn’t be too far wrong.

He lies in the bed his patroness gave him.

For him, the world is sound and touch. He can feel the cotton of the sheet below him, the soft sheets above. He can hear the creaking of the house as it settles, the distant song of birds, the faint sigh of his lover’s breathing, her warmth beside him.

He cannot read the future, but imagines it to be more of the things he likes – days in the music room, evenings at a concert, nights like the one he just had. The occasional afternoon walk.

He is lucky, and knows it.