Between Mirrors and Roses (A Phantom of the Opera Fanfiction) ✓

3: In the Lair

Erik

I caught her easily when she fell. She was light and fit flawlessly against my chest. I carried her in several strides down the hall and through a door, and laid her gently on the bed I had prepared for her. Though I already knew every detail of her face, I drank in the exquisite vision of her. I yearned to reach out and touch her but satisfied myself with brushing my unworthy hand across the air next to her cheek.

There she lay—my angel, my world—unconscious amongst the silk of the sheets. She was perfection incarnate: a porcelain doll draped in lace. Her lashes were dark against her pale skin—too pale. I should not have startled her so. I grappled with my guilt for a moment before allowing my elation to wash it away. 

She was here. For a year I had watched her, mentored her, taught her. Lied, and pretended to be her angel sent from Heaven. Now, for the first time, I had held her in my arms. And now she was helpless in my home. 

My mind swam with unfettered daydreams that had no basis in reality. Dangerous, but I gave them their head. I typically would have scolded myself for lingering on the impossible, but this was no ordinary occasion. 

I stood silently as not to wake her and let down the drapes that surrounded her bed. When she awoke, I would show her the rest of my world, make her see me as a man who adored her, and maybe, with the luck of a thousand stars, win her love in return.

...

Christine

I woke slowly to the sound of music. The bed I was in was unfamiliar but comfortable, and I wanted to stay there forever. As I remembered where I was, however, I quickly sat up.

The mirror! I had fallen through a mirror into my favorite musical, and now I was in the Phantom's lair. It sounded so ludicrous even in my head that I had to pinch myself to be sure that this all wasn't some crazy dream. 

I was in danger of freaking out and hyperventilating, so I forced my breath in and out, in and out in a steady rhythm. I was okay. I was unharmed and safe, relatively. But I faced some decisions. How long would I stay true to the plot? Was I even able to change it drastically? So far, I had followed the story fairly closely.

I stood up, taking a moment to straighten my clothes and look around. The room was beautifully furnished and decorated. Drapings hung on most of the walls. A quick examination found woman's clothes in the closet, and a small bathroom with soaps and what I assumed were 19th-century toiletries. There were three doors: one from the hall, which was cracked open, one leading to the bathroom, and one which was locked. If his house adhered to Gaston Leroux's description, then the last door led to Erik's torture chamber. I shivered and turned away.

I padded out of my room and down the short hall to the antechamber, or parlor maybe, which we had entered after disembarking from the boat. Erik's home was less a cave than a long, flat house with oddly-shaped rooms. It may have followed the contours of the cavern, but the walls were solid brick, and unlike in the Phantom of the Opera movie, the waters of the underground lake were yards away from the front door. 

Candles dripping wax sat everywhere in the parlor, giving off a flickering but surprisingly bright illumination. The scent of candle smoke hung like perfume in the air, and an organ dominated one corner. The rest of the furnishings appeared to have been salvaged from old sets: the rug under my feet, patterned with silver birds, would have been more at home in a lavish mansion; a clock perched on a desk had too many embellishments to be practical; a velvet loveseat and mismatched chairs faced a fireplace. There was no fire currently, and the chill of the underground air crept up my legs.