In Variations on a Theme of Leroux, we were introduced to Erik duBois, the reclusive man once known as The Phantom in the Opera, and the woman who became his salvation, Christine Daaé. At the end of Variations, they were married, but that is not the end of their story. In The Gift, H. D. Kingsbury and MadLizzy join forces to bring us the rest of the story. Christine is pregnant with their first child, while a strange dream forces Erik to confront his own past and to learn the truth about who he is, and why he bears a scarred face.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the authors' imaginations or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Gift: A Variations Sequel
By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy
Copyright © 2006

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, or by any information storage and retrieval system – available today or in the future -- without permission in writing from the author.

Chapter 1
A Visit to the Doctor...and a Book

Perros – July 1881

"Dr. Bret? M. duBois is here to see you."

Visant Bret sat in his office, enjoying a respite from making calls upon injured fishermen, colicky infants, and grandmothers with rheumatism by doing what he loved most – reading the most recent issue of one of the numerous medical journals to which he subscribed. He looked up when his maid, Aimee, interrupted his reading. "Show him in," he said pleasantly to the young girl.

Aimee curtsied and, moments later, showed Erik duBois into the consulting room.

Bret rose to his feet, his arthritic knees creaking slightly. At 55 years of age, he still liked to think of himself as young, but his knees reminded him otherwise. He walked over to greet his neighbor. In spite of general acceptance by the community, Erik continued to wear a half-mask that covered the right side of his face. It was pleasantly warm for July, and the doctor noticed that the facial covering was made of a lightweight fabric, which was undoubtedly much more comfortable than the flesh-colored leather ones worn when the weather was cooler.

The two men shook hands amiably and Bret invited Erik to have a seat. "I received your message earlier," he said. "I trust that all is well. This call wouldn't happen to have anything to do with Mme duBois, would it?"

Erik, whose expression was typically somber, brightened significantly at the mention of his lovely young wife. "No," he answered, "she's in excellent spirits, and the two of us are looking forward to February, when our baby will be born." Having said that, Erik hesitated, not sure how to proceed.

After years of medical practice, Dr. Bret recognized when a patient was ill at ease, even one adept at trying to disguise the fact. Experience had taught him the perfect way to get an uneasy patient, or patient's husband, to relax. "Would you like something to drink? Some tea, perhaps? Or something stronger?"

"Tea would be fine, thank you."

The doctor rang for the maid, and a few minutes later Aimee returned with the tea service. After pouring their beverages, she excused herself and exited the room. Making use of a time-proven technique, Bret engaged Erik in general conversation before inquiring further into the real reason for the visit.

"I understand you're turning to architecture," the doctor said. The engaging smile that emerged on Erik's face told Bret he'd found the perfect topic.

"Yes. I've converted one of the guest rooms on the second floor of Mamma's house into of office. In fact, Christine is there right now, sorting through the crates of books that arrived from Paris last week. I'm hoping to set up a small architectural practice."

Bret nodded, agreeing that Perros and its environs was very popular with the Parisian crowd in the summer. With many of the wealthier folks seeking a summer cottage along the beauty of the pink granite coast, a good architect could make a handsome living here.

"There are also lighthouses to be built or replaced," Erik added, "as well as bridges, railroads, and the like. So far, I've only been working on small, local projects. I am hoping that will change in the future, but for now these ventures keep me busy and allow me to become better acquainted with my neighbors."

"Does this mean that you and your wife have given up on moving to New York City?"

Erik took another sip of his tea. "For now. Christine and I are quite comfortable in Perros, and Mme. Valérius tells us that we can stay with her for as long as we wish."

"You are fortunate to have such a good relationship with your mother-in-law. Not all men can say that."

"She is a very rare woman," Erik agreed, finding himself in an unusually chatty mood, "and I have had no family for so long that having her as my mother-in-law is a welcome change in my life. As for Christine, I was concerned that she would be upset at giving up her singing career, but she insists that as long as she is able to sing in the church choir, she's happy. She also knows that as long as she sings in the choir, I will be attending services – if only to listen to her."

Visant Bret chuckled. "At least she's found a way to get you to go to church. Very clever of her. However, I understand that you, too, have a musical background. Your wife tells me that you play several instruments, and that at one time, you were her voice teacher."

By now, Erik had relaxed considerably. He flashed a self-deprecating smile when he said, "I'm surprised she left out 'dabbles at composing' when she was listing my talents."

"She will probably mention that during her next visit. She never tires of singing your praises. But now that you have me thinking on the matter, I'm wondering. With such skills, have you considered volunteering your services? You might want to consider being the organist, or perhaps the choirmaster."

Erik grimaced slightly. "I have no wish to displace the current occupants of those positions and create ill-will. If, however, one of the positions becomes open, I could be persuaded to reconsider."

"You might let it be known that you would be willing to help now and then, perhaps as a substitute organist when one is needed." Dr. Bret set down his teacup. "Now then, I know you didn't come here to idle away the afternoon. How may I help you?"

The smile that had been on Erik's face was now replaced by a more solemn expression. "I would like for you to examine me," he said.

Bret frowned. "Are you unwell?"

"No, I'm perfectly healthy. It's just…," Erik paused as he considered how to word his request. "I need to know if I should be concerned about this being passed on to my children." Very carefully, he removed the mask and hairpiece.

Bret appreciated how difficult it was for Erik duBois to expose his damaged face to anyone, regardless of whether that person was the family's physician. It had been the night of the fire when he had first seen the man's face, and at that time had thought he had been injured in the inferno. Since then, however, Erik had made certain that he covered his face whenever he was out in public. Now that they were in the doctor's consulting room, Bret got a closer look at the disfigurement and was sorry to see that whatever its cause, it was much worse than he originally thought.

"Please, have a seat over here," the doctor said, inviting Erik to take a chair where the light was better. He began his examination, pulling a pair of pince-nez from his breast pocket and resting them on the bridge of his nose. "The better to see you with," Bret said with a genial laugh.

Erik only nodded.

"The defect is quite severe," Bret commented as he intently studied the damaged tissue. "Does it cause discomfort? Is there pain?"

Erik remained perfectly still during the examination, unconsciously tensing up. "Sometimes there is a sensation of tightness, as if the skin is being pulled taut," he said. "I am also prone to headaches, but I don't know if they are in any way related to my face."

Bret nodded thoughtfully. He looked down at the mask Erik was gripping tightly in his hands. "May I?" he asked politely. The doctor inspected its construction, noticing that it was made of a light colored felt formed to fit its wearer's face, and was lined with very soft, unbleached fabric for additional comfort. "Do you wear this all the time?" he asked.

"I used to, but not anymore. These days, I only wear it when I go out in public."

"I see," the doctor said quietly, understanding that even in these enlightened times there were many people who had difficulty accepting those with deformities and abnormalities. He returned the articles to Erik.

"So, tell me, doctor. Can I pass this…defect on to my children?"

Bret took a seat next to Erik. He removed his glasses and slipped them back into his breast pocket. "Were you injured as a child?"

The question surprised Erik. "An injury? You mean . . . my face?"

"Yes."

"I…I was always led to believe that I was born with this," Erik said, shaking his head slowly.

Bret scrunched his face in puzzlement. "I don't think so," he finally said, after giving the matter careful consideration. "I suppose there's a small chance that I could be wrong, but I would stake my professional reputation on the fact that this disfigurement is the result of an injury, not a birth defect. What about your family? What do they have to say?"

"I have no brothers or sisters, and my parents died many years ago. I left home at an early age and had no further contact with them."

"If only there were someone you could ask," Bret said thoughtfully. "They might be able to put your mind at ease. In the meantime…." He rose from his chair and stepped over to one of the cabinets, bringing back with him a jar of cream. "I'd like you to try this. It's a salve I've found helpful in keeping scar tissue pliant. You may find it beneficial in easing those feelings of tightness, and perhaps it will alleviate some of the headaches as well. Use it daily, and try to keep your face uncovered as often as possible. Skin, even when it is scarred, needs to breathe."

Erik exhaled, not having realized he had been holding his breath throughout the examination. "Then, I shouldn't worry?"

Smiling kindly, the doctor replied, "In my professional opinion? No, I see no reason to worry at all. If we knew the right person to ask, I suspect we would learn that the scarring was caused by a traumatic injury when you were very young, most likely a severe burn. It is also likely that you have memories of the events, but that you have kept them at bay. Whatever the injury, it would have been extremely painful."

Erik replaced his wig and mask. Now that he had been reassured that what happened to him was not hereditary, he had other questions for the doctor. "I…there is something else I would like to discuss with you, Dr. Bret. I…I feel terribly awkward asking this, but…"

Knowing his patient was soon-to-be a first time father, Bret suspected what was causing Erik's apparent embarrassment. With a good-natured smile, he gently prodded Erik to help him find the words he was looking for. "You may feel free to ask any question. Remember, I am your doctor and your friend; anything you have to say will be kept strictly confidential."

"I…I don't want to do anything that will cause our unborn child any undue stress. What I'm trying to ask is…if physical intimacy should be halted."

"No, no need whatsoever." Dr. Bret went on to explain, "The only limitations would be your wife's interest in sexual activity, and her level of comfort. Keep in mind that Mme duBois's body will be changing and this will undoubted have some effect on how she feels. If in doubt, don't be afraid to talk to your wife. Ask her how she feels, what she wants to do, and be guided by what she has to say."

-0-0-0-

Christine sat on the floor of Erik's workroom, surrounded by opened crates and stacks of books. All the volumes that had once graced her husband's house by the lake had finally been delivered. While he called upon the doctor, she had agreed to start sorting through them, arranging them by language, and then by genre and author, getting them ready for the bookshelves Erik was installing in the room.

Picking up a particularly intriguing-looking volume, she paused to muse on why her husband had gone to see Dr. Bret. She had volunteered to accompany Erik, but understood when he politely declined her offer.

Even though her husband had said it was to get a headache powder, she suspected that he was, in fact, worried that he would pass his deformity on to their child. With nothing concrete upon which she could base her feelings, Christine had, from the time she had first realized she was pregnant, been certain that such would never happen. She only hoped that the good doctor would be able to put Erik's mind to rest on the issue.

Turning her mind back to her present task, she studied the book in her hand. It was a particularly beautiful piece of craftsmanship, its cover of tooled leather cover embossed with a foreign script picked out in gold leaf and decorated with what could only have been precious and semi-precious stones. The pages were also edged in gold. She opened the book and began to browse its contents.

"Oh my," she gasped, not realizing she had spoken aloud. Inside were colored plates depicting all manner of shocking and bizarre activities. Though she had no idea what the text said, it was all too obvious from the pictures what was going on. She was so engrossed that she did not hear Erik enter the room.

"Did you find something of interest?" he asked, standing behind her. He leaned forward, placing his hands on her shoulders, gently kneading muscles that had been hunched over, looking to see what had caught her attention. "Oh…" he whispered as she blushed, quickly closing the book and setting it aside.

"How was your visit with Dr. Bret?" she asked, trying to change the subject.

He joined her on the floor, sitting cross-legged opposite her. As usual, now that he was safely within the confines of his home, with his small family, he had removed his mask and wig. "He told me not to worry, that in his opinion, there is no chance of any child of ours being born with a face like mine."

Smiling, she reached over to take his hands into hers. Leaning forward, she greeted his announcement with a soft, gentle kiss. "We've talked about this before," she said, brushing her lips against his cheek. "You know I love this face of yours. I only wish you'd cease fretting over it." They kissed again, then settled back into comfortable talk. "Was he able to say what caused your scars?"

"Dr. Bret feels certain that they are not a birth defect, but are the result of a very old injury. The problem is, I have no memory of anything like that ever happening to me. If this was from an injury, I don't understand why my parents allowed me to believe I was born this way. What purpose did that serve?"

Christine admitted she could think of no reason, either. "I suppose we'll never know the answer to that question."

Erik felt restless. Just as Christine was making their home ready for their baby's arrival, so too did he want to prepare himself for this great change in his life. He needed to know the truth, and said as much.

"I've been forced to spend my life living a lie," he explained. "I was allowed to believe I was born ugly and misshapen. Now Dr. Bret tells me that this was not the case. If what he says is fact, then I need to know the truth about me…and my parents."

Christine thought about the matter, and then asked, "Do you know where you were born?"

"Yes, St-Martin-de-Boscherville. It's a small town about eight kilometers from Rouen," he replied, remembering fondly the spires of the Abbaye Saint-Georges-de-Boscherville, one of the few good memories from his childhood.

"Then why don't you write to the parish priest?" she suggested. "If you were born in Boscherville, I'm sure the event would have been recorded in the church records. Perhaps the priest will know about your family and will be able to shed some light on the past."

Her idea was a good one. Erik agreed to compose a letter and mail it this week. "I don't really expect an answer after all this time, but at least I will have made the attempt."

Now that he had a plan of action, he could turn his attention to other matters. He looked about at the stacks of books, wanting to speak of more pleasant topics. "At least you've managed to keep yourself busy while I was out," he said, a fleeting look of embarrassment crossing his face as he remembered the book she had been looking at. "Did you find anything you'd like to read?"

Ignoring his reference to the dubious volume, she explained how she had been sorting everything. She indicated one stack. "I was wondering what language these are written in. They look oriental."

"They're written in Parsi, the language of the Persians. They are books on a wide variety of subjects that I picked up when I was living abroad. Some are on medicine, some on architecture, some of a philosophical nature." He paused. "Are there any others you were…curious about?"

Her cheeks flushed bright red. "As a matter of fact…" she started to say, "I was wondering what language this is. This doesn't look like Parsi," she said as she handed him the book in question.

Erik could feel his own cheeks burning slightly. "You're right," he replied. "This is written in Sanskrit, the language of the Hindu."

Feeling bolder, she ventured to ask, "Is it a book on philosophy?" Having already seen many of the illustrations, she could not help but wonder what sort of philosophy the author was promoting.

"In a manner of speaking. It is a very ancient text, called Kamasutram, which might be translated as 'aphorisms of love'. It is said to have been compiled by a celibate scholar named Mallanaga Vātsyāyana who lived back when Europe was still in the Dark Ages. It speaks of love, of how a man and a woman can find fulfillment through their sexuality. I…I bought it during the years when I thought I would never know the love of woman. I…I was certain that this was as close to…intimacy as I would come." He added quickly, "This was long before I met you. You…you probably find that quite scandalous," he said rather sheepishly.

Christine looked at the book, then at Erik. She thought on some of her foster mother's teachings on Free Love. "Not really," she said at last. Returning her attention back to the book, she asked, "You are able to read Sanskrit?" She was certain that she would never cease to be amazed at her husband's many talents.

In spite of his embarrassment, Erik could not resist the urge to chuckle. His wife had been looking at a book filled with sexually explicit illustrations, yet what impressed her most was the fact that it was written in Sanskrit and that her husband could read that language. "Not fully," he answered, "but well enough to understand most of what is written."

She could not resist the urge to tease him. "Oh, and here I was thinking you just liked looking at the pictures." Thumbing through the book, she found a picture of a man and a woman in an erotic embrace. "Tell me, what does the learned ancient philosopher say of kissing?"

He took the book from her and, opening it to the appropriate page, began to read:

Now in a case of a young girl there are three sorts of kisses:

The nominal kiss
The throbbing kiss
The touching kiss

When a girl only touches the mouth of her lover with her own, but does not herself do anything, it is called the 'nominal kiss'.

When a girl, setting aside her bashfulness a little, wishes to touch the lip that is pressed into her mouth, and with that object moves her lower lip, but not the upper one, it is called the 'throbbing kiss'.

When a girl touches her lover's lip with her tongue, and having shut her eyes, places her hands on those of her lover, it is called the 'touching kiss'.

He set the book aside.

"Only three kinds of kisses?" Christine asked, her eyes sparkling.

"In this section, the author is referring to a maiden who is new to the arts of love," Erik replied.

"Perhaps we should give it a try?"

"Yes. We'll…start with the nominal kiss," he said, his breath catching in his throat. He felt almost giddy. There was something quite charming about the prospect of making love to his wife in the middle of the day. "This is a simple touching of the lips, nothing else."

They leaned towards each other, their hands clasped in their laps. Gently, tenderly he pressed his lips to hers in a kiss that was chaste, yet exquisitely passionate. Then he reluctantly pulled away. "This...is to determine if there is mutual interest," he explained, his voice filled with desire. "If there is, we progress to the next step."

Christine's heart was beating faster, and the room suddenly felt terribly warm as she found herself responding to the innocent kiss. "And if we agree that there is mutual interest?"

"We...progress to the throbbing kiss."

Inhaling deeply, Christine released her breath slowly as she tried to calm her own throbbing heart. "I...I like the sound of that one. What do we do?"

"We…brush lips." He leaned towards her once again. Again, he pressed his lips against hers, but unlike the first kiss, he rubbed his lower lip over hers, sending shivers of pleasure through them both. She immediately reciprocated his actions, ready to engage in kisses that were deeper, more sensuous.

At last they broke. "You're a fast learner," Erik said, his body reacting in wonderful ways.

"You're not so bad yourself. What were you doing? Practicing with the other chorus girls before I came along?" She laughed as she saw the shocked looked on his face. "What is the next step? It's obvious we're both feeling mutual interest," she added, the feel of his lips against hers filling her with desire. She looked down at his lap. Her husband was definitely responding as well.

"We...now advance to the touching kiss," Erik said hoarsely. Reaching out to her, he gently put his hands on her arms and pulled her closer. As their lips met, their mouths opened and their tongues awakened, taking part in the love play. They continued – touching, caressing, their tongues exploring.

Slowly, Erik took her chin in his hands and tilted her head back slightly, so that her face was turned up to meet his. Exposing her lips and her mouth to full contact, his tongue fully explored her as their hands joined in. He could feel his body tingle as she ran her fingers through his hair, gently massaging the scarred side of his head. He gasped, never having thought a touch to his damaged skin would feel so arousing. His hands touched her neck, her shoulders, stroking her breasts.

"Are we…still practicing…the touching kiss?" she murmured between kisses.

"Mmm…I believe…we've progressed…to the bent kiss," he replied between nibbles, their kisses growing even deeper and more passionate.

"The bent kiss?" she managed to whisper.

"Yes," he said with a little groan. "When the heads of two lovers are bent towards each other, and when so bent, kissing takes place, it is called a 'bent kiss'," he murmured, quoting the ancient master. "According to the sage, a wager may now be laid as to who will get hold of the lips of the other first." They kissed again.

"What happens if the woman loses?"

"She should pretend to cry, push her lover away and dispute with him, saying that another wager should be laid."

"And if she loses a second time?" By now, she was resting her head against his shoulder, taking intense pleasure in the feel of his body pressing against hers. She began undoing the buttons of his shirt, slipping her hands beneath the fabric and feeling his flesh respond to her touch.

Erik moaned, and a rumble came from deep within his chest, but whatever he was going to say remained unspoken. A horse-drawn cart was pulling up to the house, followed by voices and the opening and closing of the front door.

"Christine? Erik? Are you home?" It was Mamma. "I'll be starting supper soon. Alan Kerjean will be joining us," she added, referring to her widowed neighbor.

Getting their bodies under control was a difficult, but they finally managed. Getting ready to go downstairs to talk to Mamma, Christine gave Erik a mischievous look, then glanced back at the book. "I think we should keep this in our room...for future reference."

"I agree."

"I'm sure there are more lessons we need to study," she added, her eyes luminous as she imagined the two of them engaged in some of the positions she had seen in the book.

"Of course...if you're feeling up to it."

"Of course," she agreed. "And perhaps later, you can teach me to read Sanskrit, although the pictures alone are rather…self explanatory."

At that point, he could think could think of nothing further to say, and instead was looking forward to the two of them exploring the carnal delights of the Kamasutram.

-0-0-0-

Author's Notes (because I like including them):

Boscherville is a reference to the town where Susan Kay had her Erik born. The full name of the place is St.-Martin de Boscherville. According to Kay, Erik used to run away from home when he was a child, and for hours at a time would play the organ in

-0-

Better known these days as Kama Sutra, the Kamasutram was first translated and introduced in the West by Sir Richard Burton in 1883. This would be the explorer, not the former husband of Liz Taylor. Sir Richard Francis Burton, KCMG, FRGS, (March 19, 1821 – October 20, 1890) was an English explorer, translator, writer, soldier, orientalist, ethnologist, linguist, poet, hypnotist, fencer and diplomat. He was known for his travels and explorations within Asia and Africa as well as his extraordinary knowledge of languages and cultures. According to one count, he spoke twenty-nine European, Asian, and African languages. Burton had long had an interest in sexuality and erotic literature. However, the Obscene Publications Act of 1857 had resulted in many jail sentences for publishers with prosecutions being brought by the Society for the Suppression of Vice (Burton referred to the society and those who shared its views as Mrs. Grundy). A way around this was the private circulation of books amongst the members of a society. For this reason Burton, together with Forster Fitzgerald Arbuthnot created the Kama Shastra Society to print and circulate books that would be illegal to publish in public.

One of the most celebrated of all his books is his translation of the The Book of the Thousand Nights and a Night (more commonly known in English as The Arabian Nights because of Andrew Lang's abridged collection) in ten volumes, (1885) with six further volumes being added later. The volumes were printed by the Kama Shashtra Society in a subscribers-only edition of one thousand with a guarantee that there would never be a larger printing of the books in this form. The stories collected were often sexual in content and were considered pornography at the time of publication. In particular, the Terminal Essay of the Nights was one of the first English language texts to dare address the practice of pederasty, which he postulated, was prevalent in an area of the southern latitudes named by him the "Sotadic zone." Rumors about Burton's own sexuality were already circulating and were further incited by this work.

Perhaps Burton's best-known book is his translation of The Kama Sutra. In fact, it is not really true that he was the translator since the original manuscript was in ancient Sanskrit which he could not read. However, he collaborated with Forster Fitzgerald Arbuthnot on the work and provided translations from other manuscripts of later translations. The Kama Shashtra Society first printed the book in 1883 and numerous editions of the Burton translation are in print to this day.

His English translation from a French edition of the Arabic erotic guide The Perfumed Garden was printed as The Perfumed Garden of the Cheikh Nefzaoui: A Manual of Arabian Erotology (1886). After Richard's death Isabel burnt many of his papers including a manuscript of a subsequent translation, The Scented Garden, containing the final chapter of the work, on pederasty. It is interesting to note that Burton all along intended for this translation to be published after his death, to provide a competence for his widow and also as a final gesture of defiance against Victorian society.

Source: Wikipedia.