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November 12, 1876
Christine's room was coming together nicely. Erik hired a team of commoners through his brother's resources, mostly poor and some homeless, to restore the property back to its former beauty. The workers reported to the grounds every day and left before dawn without any greeting or farewell except their daily instructions written down and placed in the foyer, and their wages which mysteriously appeared on the dining room table by the end of the day.
Erik enjoyed the rebuilding process that was highly influenced by his blueprints and his originally designed furniture. Her room was the last and most important room in the Chateau. He knew once the work began on the room his anticipation to invite her home would be overwhelming. Yet, It was paramount that he give her more time. Time to choose. Although... the twisting of his stomach at the thought of her with Raoul told him something wasn't quite right. It wasn't their soon closeness that bothered him, but her health and welfare at his estate. She looked sickly months ago when he went to check on her last. No one in Chagny residence realized there was a ghost lurking around.
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August 8, 1876 It was far past midnight and the wind was blowing the trees in the pale moonlight. From the lawn, Erik saw a single candle flickering from an upstairs window. Christine! He recalled an evening so long ago the edges of the memory we're blurry.
A small teenager lay in her orphan bed reading her prized copy of Wuthering Heights out loud to herself. A disembodied voice joins in for the reading of chapter three.
'The ledge, where I placed my candle, had a few mildewed books piled up in one corner; and it was covered with writing scratched on the paint. This writing, however, was nothing but a name repeated in all kinds of characters, large and small—Catherine Earnshaw...' the young girl was pleased he knew the passage, he'd brought his own copy to follow along with her.
They continued together, 'I must stop it, nevertheless!' I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand! The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed, 'Let me in—let me in!' 'Who are you?' I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself. 'Catherine Linton,' it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of Linton? I had read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton) 'I'm come home: I'd lost my way on the moor!'
