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

33: Long Days and Lingering Doubts

Erik

A few weeks went by. Our silly little maid was relieved to see us happily situated again. She communicated her pleasure by cooking our favorite meals, smiling too much, and generally getting underfoot.

Ashamed of my lapse in judgment, I struggled ardently to prove to Christine that I had changed and was worthy of her. I despised morphine the way I despised the room of mirrors: as a reminder of the times before I found myself in Christine. I vowed never to fall prey to it again. Of course, there were still cravings, but I strove to distract myself.

Christine was a lovely and lively distraction. We played and sang together for hours. Her voice carried me to heights I only achieved alongside her. My music, the only beautiful part of me, I gave to her as completely as I could.

Her presence was calming, even when she was simply reading as I worked. I would be writing or drawing up plans and, hearing the turn of a page, be reminded that Christine was with me.

We were so similar. We enjoyed the same books and music, and she could carry an informed conversation with me—no small feat. We discussed politics, philosophy, religion, and scientific achievements. When I stumped her or talked her into a corner—a thing that happened occasionally—she won the argument by kissing me on the mouth and eradicating my powers of speech.

I loved the music of her laugh that she tried to hide when something she read amused her. I loved the concentrated furrow of her brow when she read something serious. I loved the way she tilted her head and worried her lip when lost in thought. I loved her humor—sometimes cheerful, sometimes dry. I loved the flowers she picked from the garden and displayed in the study, never the same from week to week. I loved the crinkle around her eyes when she smiled.

I drew her frequently still. She rarely entered my room, so my hoarding habits persisted in that space, unseen. Her likeness covered a large section of the wall. Long ago I had drawn her because it was the closest I could come to intimate contact. Now I drew her to remind myself of the blessing I had been bestowed and to attempt to capture her beauty on paper; it was an impossible task. Anyhow, I had only to turn my head or enter another room, and she would be there for real.

One night, I lay awake far longer than I should have. It was not rare for me to have difficulty sleeping, but being with Christine was always worth the long hours in bed.

Christine lay next to me, and I tried to be still so she could sleep, but eventually, I realized that she was awake as well. She turned to look at me, doe-eyes glowing in the darkness from a mane of messy hair.

"Are you awake?" she whispered.

"I'm afraid my dear," I replied, "that you have married an insomniac." She smiled, and I brushed her hair back from her face and planted a kiss on her forehead. "Have I kept you up?"

"No," she said softly. "Sometimes I just can't sleep." We lay quietly for a little longer, then she sat up and reached out to me. "Since neither of us is sleeping, we might as well do something."

I let her pull me out of bed, bemused and intrigued.

She wrapped a shawl around her nightgown and led me downstairs to the parlor.

I made up the fireplace, and the room grew bright and warm. Only the crickets serenading the stars were awake with us.

She padded out of the room, and I spotted her in the hall near our hat and cloak rack. She returned with my black evening cape.

What did she possibly want with that?

"Ok," she said. "Don't hate me, but I've always wanted to try this." I watched her fasten it around her neck. It was so long on her that it draped on the floor. She looked impossibly sweet cocooned in the soft black folds. She grabbed an edge of the cape, and made a clumsy attempt at flourishing it. The cape flared like the wings of a large butterfly, and the look of fierce concentration on her face only added to her beauty. "That was pathetic," she said.