Disclaimer: I don't own them. Hope to, though.
Blame: Goes to several crazy Muses and one obsessed phangirl who wants to make it known, once and for all, what happened when the stories ended. I am working primarily from the Leroux novel here, but also with ALW, as usual. If I sound like Susan Kay, it's completely by accident as I have not yet been able to get hold of a copy of that version.
A/N: I do want to get this published (for money) but I have not yet, and I'm looking for all the information I can get. This story will be historically accurate: geography, cultures, clothing, etiquette, speech patterns, everything: the rough part is that it's set in two different eras so take note of the dates.
Last note: Celeste IS NOT me, I just like the name.
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"After the Opera" by AngelCeleste85 Prologue
December 17th, 1908 New Orleans, Louisiana, America
The bedroom was stylish and opulent, but tasteful. Cream-colored fabrics on the bed matched well the creamy silk rugs from Persia and contrasted with the deep mahogany furniture and wall paneling. In the tan marble fireplace, a maid bustled half-heartedly to lay a fire against the coming of the winter night.
Celeste loved to be in this room, usually. It smelled of lavender and vanilla, the two scents she loved best, and was always warm and inviting. She and her mother had shared many long talks in this room and the young woman felt comfortable here. Christine and Raoul de Chagny had always made it clear that, as long as she knocked first, their only daughter was quite welcome in this, their bedroom. She could remember many times when, as a little girl, she hadn't wanted to be alone in the night and had come here. The Countess had always smiled and sung her to sleep. There were safe memories here.
But now there was a third scent in the room, and a hint, a promise of what was to come. This presence made the room into an uncomfortable parody of itself. The feeling, and the scent, came most strongly from the bed that Celeste was seated on the foot of, from which a slow, shallow, raspy breath could be heard.
She compared her mother's features now to her memories of what the Countess had once looked like. She remembered, vaguely, blonde hair falling around her in long waves: now, the gold was shot through with silver streaking down from her mothers' temples that only added to the grace and elegance of her carriage when awake, gave her a sense of peacefulness as she slept, like now. But the long waves were gone, the blonde curls shorn to no longer than the base of her head to form a cap of yellow and gray in the hopes of easing Christine's terrible headaches.
Her mother's face also bore the ravages of long illness: beneath the laugh lines and worry creases, a little deeper and a little more numerous than Celeste could quite account for in her memory, beneath the soft pale skin appropriate to a lady moving in the upper echelons of Victorian society, Christine's face took on an unhealthy yellow hue that spoke of a long battle with sickness. Her eyes were sunken now, her lips thin and dry no matter how often a cup was raised to them. The flesh seemed to have wasted away, leaving her sallow skin stretched too tightly over her knuckles and her cheekbones, too loosely under her chin and arms. The ten-year battle the Countess de Chagny had fought so valiantly against tuberculosis was coming to an end at last.
Celeste grasped the wan, pale hand that rested on the cream-colored quilt, scarcely distinguishable from the fabric. She could tell by touch that the skin was too dry, too thin, too cold, but a touch on the older woman's forehead indicated that she was about as comfortable as she could be made.
The maid finished laying the fire and opened the door to go. Celeste heard her murmur quietly to someone, and then the door closed again. A moment later, her father stood by her side gazing at the sleeping woman.
"There's been no change, Papa, not for the last six hours."
Raoul nodded, he had not expected that there would be. They had all known for years that Christine was not well and the doctor's diagnosis years ago of consumption had proven true. Hearing it then had been like hearing Christine's death sentence, but they had made those last few years worth it and extended that sentence as long as possible with a move to America.
Six weeks ago, the disease which had lain quiet, plaguing her only a little and that during the winter, had flared with a frightening vengeance, racing through her weakened body so quickly it was almost possible to watch. Not that she had been in good health six weeks ago, but this sudden plummet of Christine's health was devastating to Raoul every bit as much as to the woman who struggled through it. Creases had appeared in the Count's face that had not been there before as he watched the woman he had loved with all his heart and soul dying slowly in front of him.
The Count's eyes strayed from the wasted form before him to the young woman beside him. Celeste had so much of Christine in her: her eyes, sky blue as they were at the moment. Her build was small and slight beneath her gray dressing gown, much as her mother had been at the age of twenty-five. Christine could be seen in Celeste's hands, long and slender. In her sweet, clear soprano voice most certainly: the debate about allowing Celeste to learn music had been the bitterest debate that Raoul and Christine had ever had in nearly thirty years of marriage and he was still not entirely happy about the outcome.
And, he added to himself with a father's pride in his daughter, that there was no way he could ever deny his parentage of her. Celeste had Raoul's Roman nose, his strong jaw. Her eyes changed from her mother's sky blue to his own stormy gray with the light and her moods, which were often mercurial. The temper, he had no idea where she had acquired that, but she maintained a strict control on herself and had done so from the moment they discovered that glass had a way of inexplicably shattering whenever she was angry or upset. It was eerie, at times: frequently he could not tell what his daughter was thinking or feeling, and he knew it had disturbed Christine as well.
"She's comfortable?" he asked quietly, his baritone a muted rumble in the room. Christine stirred slightly at the sound.
Celeste nodded. "As best as can be done for her."
Raoul sighed, his big frame slumping somewhat in his chair. "Jeannette said that she's afraid to disturb you right now, but she has some food set aside for you." Jeanette was one of the servants who had had a special fondness for the young Vicomtess for years.
The young woman shook her head. "I'm not hungry, Papa."
"Please?" Raoul held his daughter's slightly wide-eyed gaze a moment longer. Strange, he thought, how such an open gaze can be so hooded. "Get something to eat, and get some rest. The doctor will be here soon. Don't make me tell him to order you to bed as well.
Celeste had to smile. Her father returned it briefly. "I will try, Papa, but I don't think I'm going to sleep well."
"That is all right, cherie," the Count murmured, his attention returning to his wife. "Matthew and Jeanne-Marie will be in a few minutes, they'll make up a bed in here if you would prefer to stay in here."
"Thank you, Papa," Celeste whispered, tears in her eyes. Raoul had always understood what she felt about her mother and honored it. She had not left the room in four days, not trusting the doctor to do anything helpful for her mother, and had hovered over the dying woman like a highly protective mother hawk. "She nursed me when I was so sick. It's the least I can do for her, and I love her."
"I know," the old man nodded. "Go get something to eat before you collapse and François has to carry you back to your bed."
Celeste's silver-grey slippers made almost no noise as they glided across the swirls of forest green and chocolate brown in the delicate Persian rug. The door to the sickroom closed behind her with a barely audible click once she was out in the hall.
Blame: Goes to several crazy Muses and one obsessed phangirl who wants to make it known, once and for all, what happened when the stories ended. I am working primarily from the Leroux novel here, but also with ALW, as usual. If I sound like Susan Kay, it's completely by accident as I have not yet been able to get hold of a copy of that version.
A/N: I do want to get this published (for money) but I have not yet, and I'm looking for all the information I can get. This story will be historically accurate: geography, cultures, clothing, etiquette, speech patterns, everything: the rough part is that it's set in two different eras so take note of the dates.
Last note: Celeste IS NOT me, I just like the name.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
"After the Opera" by AngelCeleste85 Prologue
December 17th, 1908 New Orleans, Louisiana, America
The bedroom was stylish and opulent, but tasteful. Cream-colored fabrics on the bed matched well the creamy silk rugs from Persia and contrasted with the deep mahogany furniture and wall paneling. In the tan marble fireplace, a maid bustled half-heartedly to lay a fire against the coming of the winter night.
Celeste loved to be in this room, usually. It smelled of lavender and vanilla, the two scents she loved best, and was always warm and inviting. She and her mother had shared many long talks in this room and the young woman felt comfortable here. Christine and Raoul de Chagny had always made it clear that, as long as she knocked first, their only daughter was quite welcome in this, their bedroom. She could remember many times when, as a little girl, she hadn't wanted to be alone in the night and had come here. The Countess had always smiled and sung her to sleep. There were safe memories here.
But now there was a third scent in the room, and a hint, a promise of what was to come. This presence made the room into an uncomfortable parody of itself. The feeling, and the scent, came most strongly from the bed that Celeste was seated on the foot of, from which a slow, shallow, raspy breath could be heard.
She compared her mother's features now to her memories of what the Countess had once looked like. She remembered, vaguely, blonde hair falling around her in long waves: now, the gold was shot through with silver streaking down from her mothers' temples that only added to the grace and elegance of her carriage when awake, gave her a sense of peacefulness as she slept, like now. But the long waves were gone, the blonde curls shorn to no longer than the base of her head to form a cap of yellow and gray in the hopes of easing Christine's terrible headaches.
Her mother's face also bore the ravages of long illness: beneath the laugh lines and worry creases, a little deeper and a little more numerous than Celeste could quite account for in her memory, beneath the soft pale skin appropriate to a lady moving in the upper echelons of Victorian society, Christine's face took on an unhealthy yellow hue that spoke of a long battle with sickness. Her eyes were sunken now, her lips thin and dry no matter how often a cup was raised to them. The flesh seemed to have wasted away, leaving her sallow skin stretched too tightly over her knuckles and her cheekbones, too loosely under her chin and arms. The ten-year battle the Countess de Chagny had fought so valiantly against tuberculosis was coming to an end at last.
Celeste grasped the wan, pale hand that rested on the cream-colored quilt, scarcely distinguishable from the fabric. She could tell by touch that the skin was too dry, too thin, too cold, but a touch on the older woman's forehead indicated that she was about as comfortable as she could be made.
The maid finished laying the fire and opened the door to go. Celeste heard her murmur quietly to someone, and then the door closed again. A moment later, her father stood by her side gazing at the sleeping woman.
"There's been no change, Papa, not for the last six hours."
Raoul nodded, he had not expected that there would be. They had all known for years that Christine was not well and the doctor's diagnosis years ago of consumption had proven true. Hearing it then had been like hearing Christine's death sentence, but they had made those last few years worth it and extended that sentence as long as possible with a move to America.
Six weeks ago, the disease which had lain quiet, plaguing her only a little and that during the winter, had flared with a frightening vengeance, racing through her weakened body so quickly it was almost possible to watch. Not that she had been in good health six weeks ago, but this sudden plummet of Christine's health was devastating to Raoul every bit as much as to the woman who struggled through it. Creases had appeared in the Count's face that had not been there before as he watched the woman he had loved with all his heart and soul dying slowly in front of him.
The Count's eyes strayed from the wasted form before him to the young woman beside him. Celeste had so much of Christine in her: her eyes, sky blue as they were at the moment. Her build was small and slight beneath her gray dressing gown, much as her mother had been at the age of twenty-five. Christine could be seen in Celeste's hands, long and slender. In her sweet, clear soprano voice most certainly: the debate about allowing Celeste to learn music had been the bitterest debate that Raoul and Christine had ever had in nearly thirty years of marriage and he was still not entirely happy about the outcome.
And, he added to himself with a father's pride in his daughter, that there was no way he could ever deny his parentage of her. Celeste had Raoul's Roman nose, his strong jaw. Her eyes changed from her mother's sky blue to his own stormy gray with the light and her moods, which were often mercurial. The temper, he had no idea where she had acquired that, but she maintained a strict control on herself and had done so from the moment they discovered that glass had a way of inexplicably shattering whenever she was angry or upset. It was eerie, at times: frequently he could not tell what his daughter was thinking or feeling, and he knew it had disturbed Christine as well.
"She's comfortable?" he asked quietly, his baritone a muted rumble in the room. Christine stirred slightly at the sound.
Celeste nodded. "As best as can be done for her."
Raoul sighed, his big frame slumping somewhat in his chair. "Jeannette said that she's afraid to disturb you right now, but she has some food set aside for you." Jeanette was one of the servants who had had a special fondness for the young Vicomtess for years.
The young woman shook her head. "I'm not hungry, Papa."
"Please?" Raoul held his daughter's slightly wide-eyed gaze a moment longer. Strange, he thought, how such an open gaze can be so hooded. "Get something to eat, and get some rest. The doctor will be here soon. Don't make me tell him to order you to bed as well.
Celeste had to smile. Her father returned it briefly. "I will try, Papa, but I don't think I'm going to sleep well."
"That is all right, cherie," the Count murmured, his attention returning to his wife. "Matthew and Jeanne-Marie will be in a few minutes, they'll make up a bed in here if you would prefer to stay in here."
"Thank you, Papa," Celeste whispered, tears in her eyes. Raoul had always understood what she felt about her mother and honored it. She had not left the room in four days, not trusting the doctor to do anything helpful for her mother, and had hovered over the dying woman like a highly protective mother hawk. "She nursed me when I was so sick. It's the least I can do for her, and I love her."
"I know," the old man nodded. "Go get something to eat before you collapse and François has to carry you back to your bed."
Celeste's silver-grey slippers made almost no noise as they glided across the swirls of forest green and chocolate brown in the delicate Persian rug. The door to the sickroom closed behind her with a barely audible click once she was out in the hall.