Author's Note:
I finished this in a bit of a hurry, so I apologise in advance for any little typos or mistakes I might have missed; I've not had time to subject it to my usual more rigorous scrutiny.
This fic is set in that vague AU that only ever seems to come out at Christmas, where Christine is on good terms with Erik and certain others at the Opera know of his existence. However, these stories don't really tally with one another and are more 'variations on a theme' than anything else. This one is rather more introspective (and longer!) than my two previous Christmas stories.
Cover art is by yours truly.
Enjoy. :)
THE GHOST AT THE FEAST
"Christine! Christine, wait! I need to speak to you!"
Gathering up her libretto and having endured more than the usual number of snide remarks from Carlotta, Christine was all ready to head home when she heard Meg calling her; turning she saw the little ballerina, the skirts of her day dress held high, hurtling across the stage in her direction and almost running down the unsuspecting members of the chorus who were standing around chatting now that rehearsal was over. Even Monsieur Reyer had to quickly jump out of the way lest Meg collide with him and knock him over the edge of the stage into the orchestra pit. By the time her friend reached her side Christine was trying hard not to laugh. "Whatever is the matter?" she asked, waiting patiently for Meg to get her breath back after her sprint.
"Maman... asked me to give... to give you this," Meg gasped, apparently oblivious to the rather ribald remarks some of the male members of the cast were making about her rather unladylike entrance. She pulled an envelope from where it had been tucked between her bodice and skirt and handed it to Christine, who recognised Madame Giry's precise copperplate writing. Frowning in confusion, she opened it to find a card inside inviting her to dinner after Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve.
"Don't you usually join everyone else here for le Réveillon?" she asked.
Meg pulled a face, obviously remembering the previous year's Christmas feast, which had been notable for the quantity of wine flowing. Paid for by the managers, some members of the company had taken greater advantage of Messieurs Andre and Firmin's generosity than others; when one of the stage hands instigated a belching competition Christine had been quite glad to slip away. "After the food fight that ended the last one she said she'd never attend another," Meg said with a roll of the eyes. "Don't tell her, but the other ballet rats were cheering after she left; if Maman had seen some of the things Hortense and Dorothée got up to I think she might have had an apoplexy on the spot."
"Well, it's very kind of her to invite me into your home," Christine replied, quite touched that the usually stern ballet mistress would think of her. She had no relatives with whom to spend the Christmas holiday, and though Raoul would have gladly spurned his responsibility to his family she could not let him fall out of favour with them for her sake; for him there would be balls and parties, dancing and suppers, all of which he would doubtless willingly share with her but it was a world in which she could never feel comfortable knowing that all eyes were on her and every disapproving matron would be whispering behind their fan about the 'jumped-up chorus girl' who had infatuated the young Vicomte. Of course, there was Erik, but he had never given any indication that he cared for Christmas; Christine had a feeling he would despise it as another hollow, empty celebration so beloved of the human race from which he tried so hard to hide.
"You know she likes you, Christine. She might not show it," Meg added as it was Christine's turn to grimace, remembering Madame's scolding when she was still in the corps de ballet and found her attention wandering. "But she does, really. And I'd love you to come, you know that; you're always welcome."
Christine smiled. "In that case, I would be delighted to accept – oof!" She was cut off when Meg impulsively threw her arms around her neck and gave her a crushing bear hug that anyone watching would probably not have imagined someone of her petite stature to be capable. "Meg!" she protested as her lungs were nearly crushed, "I need to be able to breathe! Erik's making me rehearse Carlotta's role as well as mine; I think he's hoping she might come down with the influenza before opening night."
Meg shot the Prima Donna a glare; Carlotta was preening, surrounded by her usual coterie of sycophants, chief among which was Signor Piangi. Neither Christine nor Meg could understand what such a kindly man could possibly see in the spoilt, stroppy diva. "Or something worse," Meg muttered darkly as Carlotta said something and her little band of admirers tittered unconvincingly; Signora Guidicelli was not known for her sense of humour.
"I wonder what happened to Signor Guidicelli?" mused Christine.
"Perhaps he went deaf; Carlotta's voice would be enough to destroy anyone's hearing."
"Meg, that's mean," Christine chided, even though she secretly agreed. "Even Erik has said that her voice was good once. She's fallen into too many bad habits over the years."
"And she's too arrogant to take anyone's advice about correcting them. Don't apologise for her, Christine; she's vile, especially to you," Meg said. "After Hannibal you deserve another chance in the limelight but she's pushed you down every time; she enjoys insulting you. She's jealous because you're younger, prettier, and can sing ten times better than her; that's what it is, plain and simple."
Christine sighed and blushed at the same time. "Yes, you're probably right."
"You're too nice, that's the trouble." Meg smiled fondly. "It's a shame Erik can't make one of his secret trap doors open just as Carlotta steps onto it; I for one would applaud if she disappeared."
Despite herself Christine couldn't help giggling. "I'm sure he would love to, but your mother would have his hide. I think Madame Giry is possibly the only person in the world who scares him!"
"I doubt if anyone can scare the Opera Ghost. And that reminds me," Meg added, pulling another envelope, identical to the first, from the folds of her dress. When she held it out Christine could just read the name, upside down, written across the front. "Maman also asked me to give this one to Erik."
"Well, you know where he lives. Or if you leave it in Box Five he should find it," Christine said, her frown returning slightly as her friend shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. "Meg, did Madame actually ask you to hand that to Erik? In person?"
Meg looked at the floor, apparently finding the scuffed boards of the stage fascinating. "She might have said something of the kind," she mumbled. "But you two are on such good terms now that I thought that you could - "
"You're scared of him," Christine said, and Meg glanced up at her indignantly for a moment before reluctantly nodding. "Oh, Meg, there's no reason to be frightened of Erik. He's just a big pussycat once you get to know him."
"Of course, how foolish of me! And his Phantom persona is just put on for a joke," Meg replied, her tone dripping with sarcasm. When she next spoke it was in a hushed whisper, eyes wide. "Christine, don't look at me like that! He's the Opera Ghost and he's... well, he's a little strange, you must admit. And intimidating. And I've never actually spoken to him; I think if I came across him in the corridors I'd be shaking so much my voice would completely disappear." She paused, watching Christine's face, before she begged, "Please, Christine, don't make me go down there on my own! It so dark and creepy; I might get lost in his labyrinth and never be seen again!"
Christine found herself laughing, much to the little ballerina's consternation. "Oh, all right," she said, taking the envelope, and pretending not to notice Meg's audible sigh of relief. "But if he agrees to come you're going to have to face him, you know; he'll be your mother's guest so you'll be expected to make conversation."
The look on Meg's face was eloquence itself, and Christine sadly couldn't help silently agreeing, trying to picture Erik as part of a Christmas party and failing miserably. Of course, you know he'll never accept the invitation...
In the end, when she came to try and deliver it the elusive Phantom was nowhere to be found.
Over the next two days Christine did her best to catch him, both in his home in the cellars and around the theatre, but Erik stubbornly (and possibly deliberately) refused to appear. By the time Christmas Eve came round she was beginning to wonder if he had heard the exchange between herself and Meg and was avoiding her for a reason; though he tried to remain aloof and hide behind his masks, both real and metaphorical, knowing that Meg was reluctant to come near him would cut him to the quick. He might pretend to be cold and hate the world around him but Christine knew well that he was quite easily hurt and casual unkindness, however unintentional, could cut him to the quick. Too many years of pain and rejection, of being treated like a pariah and a monster by those around him, had made him terribly sensitive; hearing Meg's words and not knowing that she didn't really mean them would have been like rubbing salt into an open wound.
The final performance went well, and the cast received a standing ovation, but as she stood with the rest in the glare of the stage lights accepting the applause Christine found herself casting a disappointed glance up to Box Five, knowing that her Angel of Music would not be watching and giving his approval; she could always feel his presence and tonight the box was empty though it had naturally remained unsold. Unable to locate him she had been forced to leave Madame Giry's invitation amongst the cushions of his red velvet chair, hoping that he might pass by his box and discover it before Midnight Mass was over. Though he would doubtless scoff and mock and claim that he would never miss what he had never experienced, it felt wrong to be even contemplating celebrating Christmas without him, for it was precisely at this time of year that the joy attending the birth of the Christ Child should be shared with those who imagined themselves to be alone and unloved.
There was not even a note waiting in her dressing room, and it was with a sinking heart that Christine went to meet Meg, who as usual was brimming with festive cheer, a Christmas rose tucked into her golden curls and a sprig of mistletoe in her pocket with which to catch unsuspecting male members of the company unawares. "But don't breathe a word to Maman," she whispered as they took their places in the line that Madame Giry and Monsieur Reyer would lead to the church. Unsurprisingly the managers had declined to attend, preferring to keep themselves apart from their 'staff', and Christine was grateful that Carlotta was also missing, doubtless celebrating in her own unique way amongst her faithful, Piangi at her side. Or possibly at her feet.
"What's wrong?" Meg asked softly as they left the theatre, hunching into their winter coats and cloaks as a brisk wind blew across the Place de l'Opera, chilling their exposed faces. The dark sky above was heavy and Christine would not be surprised if they had snow by morning, recognising from her childhood in Sweden the familiar tang in the air. "Something's bothering you; you've gone even quieter than usual."
Christine sighed and explained about the missing Phantom. "I'm starting to get worried about him; he's never missed one of my performances before. If something has happened to him - "
"You..." Meg looked at her, eyes searching her face, and the little ballerina drew in a sharp breath. "You really do care about him, don't you?"
"Of course I do! He's my teacher, my Angel, my - " Christine broke off, biting her lip. "It's easy for all of you just to think of him as the Phantom, as the peculiar man who likes to pretend to haunt the theatre, or possibly not even as a man at all, but he's so much more than that, Meg. He has good reasons for hiding from the world, but I don't like to imagine him buried down there, all alone, especially at Christmas. Even ghosts deserve a little happiness in their lives."
Meg's face softened and she reached for Christine's hand, patting it reassuringly. "Of course they do. And you're right, I am being silly; of course Erik isn't a real ghost. It's just that I'm so used to thinking of him as one; even though you and Maman know him neither of you have ever introduced us and it's difficult to regard someone as a living, breathing person when you only ever encounter them from a distance."
"Will you come down to his house with me tomorrow if he has not made contact?" Christine asked, adding quickly, "I don't want to impose on you, but if anything has happened I think I'd rather someone else was there."
There was the faintest tremor in Meg's expression before she nodded. Christine squeezed her fingers gratefully but before she could express her thanks they had arrived at the church and all conversation in their ranks ceased at a glance from Madame Giry. She followed her friends and colleagues up the steps and through the doors, shuffling into a pew beside Meg and finding her hand stealing towards her mother's silver crucifix at her throat as the scent of the incense and candles, and the sonorous tone of the organ settled around her with the comforting familiarity of an old blanket. As the choir lifted their voices in a heavenly harmony with which even he could surely not find fault Christine offered up a prayer for her Angel, that no harm would come to him, wherever he might be.
She could not bear the thought of losing him.
"No word from the Vicomte, Christine?" Madame Giry asked later as she set out plates on the pristine white tablecloth, wordlessly instructing Meg to bring cutlery. Christine stood rather awkwardly to one side, wanting to help but not daring after her first offer had been kindly but firmly rebuffed, Madame insisting that she was a guest. "I had thought you might have been invited to one of the de Chagnys' dances."
"I was, by Raoul at least, but I know his mother wouldn't have wanted me there and I don't fit in with all those lords and ladies," Christine replied. "I know he pretends it doesn't matter but I don't want to embarrass him in front of his friends and that is exactly what would happen; at the one ball I did attend, because he insisted and I didn't want to disappoint him, one of his sisters told a horrible old Duchess who I was and it was round the supper room within ten minutes. Everyone was staring at me and I thought my face would catch fire I was blushing so much. One drunken baron asked if I could give him a personal performance and bring my slave girl costume with me." She shuddered again at the memory, seeing in her mind's eye the man's leer and smelling the brandy on his breath.
"Ugh," said Meg, dumping knives and forks on the table with such force that the clash of metal made her mother grimace. "Why does Philippe de Chagny give houseroom to people like that? I know he's pretty faithful to Sorelli but he still haunts the dancers' lounge with too many old soaks who have wandering hands. I barely escaped one the other day; he wasn't a man, he was an octopus! His hands were everywhere. I bet he has a wife at home, sitting alone by the fire with a tapestry frame and a bagful of broken dreams."
"The nobility stick together," Christine told her. "People like us are for sport, not marriage. That's why Sorelli takes everything Philippe offers her: because she knows he'll never put a ring on her finger."
"He loves her, though, doesn't he?"
"I think so. He certainly has no intention of marrying anyone else; Raoul has said more than once that he is expected to marry well and continue the de Chagny line," Christine said, obediently taking her seat at the table at a gesture from Madame Giry.
Meg grinned. "The Comte must have been pleased when Raoul announced that he wanted to propose to you."
"Oh, he was." Christine tried not to laugh, remembering Raoul's impersonation of his brother almost having an apoplectic fit. "Raoul told me he turned puce and his eyes almost popped out of his head. Of course," she added, accepting the bowl of vegetables she was offered, "Raoul knows deep down that our marriage would never work, he just doesn't want to admit it to himself."
"You sell yourself short, Christine," Madame declared as she poured the wine and took her own seat. The chair at the head of the table was empty, though a place setting had been laid, and it was obvious that she was still hoping that Erik might decide to turn up. Christine did too, but she had admitted to herself earlier in the evening that such an occurrence was unlikely. "They may have money and privilege, but those in the upper echelons of society are no better than anyone else."
"I'm just being practical, Madame," Christine replied. "Of course I'm very fond of Raoul, and we would rub along well together, I'm sure of that, but..."
The ballet mistress's sharp gaze settled on her and she tried hard not to shrink under it. "You would want for nothing. Most young ladies would jump at the chance to have their every whim catered for."
"I know." Christine prodded at a slice of beef with her fork, brow furrowed as she considered her next words. "But you have been married, Madame, and I'm sure you won't think me silly if I say that in our situation, without the concern of keeping up a position in society, it might not be unreasonable to hope for something more. Money is not everything."
"It's useful, though," Meg remarked, reaching for the bread.
Madame Giry was still looking at Christine. A slight smile touched her lips and she nodded. "I think I understand," she said.
No one spoke again for some time as they all tucked in to the Christmas feast; the Girys had done them proud, Christine thought, on a very tight budget, and there was plenty to go round, including oysters, boudin blanc and a delicious-looking bûche de Noël for dessert, with sweet wine and tiny little almond biscuits that she guessed Madame had made herself. As always, Meg ate with gusto, putting away far more than anyone would expect given her tiny frame; Madame was prim, always correct in her etiquette as she was in everything, and Christine tried not to gorge herself on treats that were beyond her own limited means. She thought idly of the banquet Raoul would doubtlessly be enjoying at the Hôtel de Chagny: geese by the flock, turkey stuffed with chestnuts, perhaps a boar's head if they were being particularly extravagant. She could imagine the huge puddings and desserts, confections of marzipan and sugar, ice sculptures decorating the table, wilting in the heat from a massive Yule log burning in the hearth. There would be conversation, words slurring as the evening wore on and the gentlemen sank further into the their cups, polite commonplace observations from well-brought-up but sparsely-educated young ladies, the whole followed by dancing with the same until the early hours; as dawn began to break they would all take to their carriages and head for home and their feather beds, to sleep until noon. Christine had no doubt that Raoul would be utterly bored, and felt a little guilty for abandoning him to his fate.
Thoughts of Raoul turned her mind once more to her missing teacher, probably at this moment sitting alone in his house deep below the Opera; glancing up she caught Madame Giry looking wistfully at the empty place at the table and knew that the ballet mistress was thinking the same thing.
Madame was just cutting into the cake when the music began.
Attuned as her ears were even now, nearly six years after his death, to her father's violin, Christine heard it first, starting out of her seat at the gentle play of a bow upon strings; a moment later Meg was moving towards the window, irresistibly drawn by the sound of an instrument in the hands of a master. The little ballerina threw up the sash, either not hearing or ignoring her mother's entreaties not to let in the cold air, and leaned out of the window, craning her neck to see into the street four storeys below.
"There's no one down there!" she said as Christine joined her, followed, with a sigh and a roll of the eyes by Madame Giry. "Where can it be coming from?"
Christine's gaze roamed the pavement, the narrow road, each doorway of the shops and apartment buildings but she could see no one, not even a shadow beneath one of the struggling street lamps. The violin's song rose and swelled around them and she glanced up to see heads poking from the windows of the flats above them, hearing others around puzzling over the source of the ghostly music.
"Why, it must be a phantom!" someone exclaimed, and a smile began to twitch at the corners of Christine's mouth as she belatedly realised that only one person could stage such a performance.
A Phantom indeed, she thought, her heart lifting as a voice, a very familiar rich, velvet tenor, joined the strings. It was soft to begin with, barely floating above the sound of the violin, a disembodied singer to join the invisible instrument upon which he played with the skill and dexterity of a virtuoso; in her mind's eye Christine could see his long white fingers dancing over the strings, imagined his eyes closing as he lost himself in the beauty he created, the slightest smile upon his misshapen lips, the shining, perfect body of his precious Stradivarius tucked beneath his chin. The carol he sang was one she knew well, and she found herself joining his song almost before she realised, her own voice weaving seamlessly with his as it did so often during their lessons.
O holy night! The stars are brightly shining,
It is the night of our dear Saviour's birth.
Long lay the world in sin and error pining,
'Til He appear'd and the soul felt its worth.
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
"My goodness," Meg breathed beside her, "Is that Erik? Tell me it can't be."
"It is," her mother replied, her eyes a little bright. "He came after all! Oh, I am glad."
"But where is he?" Christine could not help but grin as her friend all but climbed onto the window sill in an attempt to find the Phantom. True to form, Erik was deliberately refusing to reveal himself; his vocal tricks and prowess meant that he could be almost anywhere and they would still be able to hear him, an ability he put to good use in his guise of Opera Ghost. Meg's eyes were round. "You never told me he could sing like that!" she declared, wagging an accusing finger at Christine. "I've never heard anything like it... he sounds... he sounds just how I'd always imagined an angel might sing."
"That's because he is an angel," Christine murmured, spared the necessity of replying as Erik unleashed the sheer power and almost unearthly beauty of his voice upon the chorus; it was a voice that could charm and soothe and hypnotise, a voice that could be dark and dangerous and may well have been used in such a way in the past but now it was raised for the best and purest reason of all, praising God above; the fact that it came from the mouth of a man who claimed to have given up all hope of faith in a higher power could only bring the Lord more joy.
Fall on your knees! O hear the angel voices!
O night divine, O night when Christ was born;
O night divine, O night, O night Divine.
"Go and get him, Christine," said Madame Giry as the spectral voice died away, retreating into the darkness of the night, the shadows that were the Phantom's natural habitat. Christine found herself being ushered towards the door, her cloak settled about her shoulders. "It's starting to snow and I can't bear the thought of him out there all alone in the cold."
"He might refuse to come in, Madame," Christine protested, but the ballet mistress shook her head.
"Drag him in if you have to. He's going to get a decent meal tonight if on no other. Oh, do hurry, child," Madame added, opening the door for her, "before he runs away!"
Obediently, almost before she realised she was moving, Christine was running across the lobby and down the stairs, her shadow leaping across the wall before her in the flickering flame of the old, cracked oil lamp that lit the narrow hallway. By the time she reached the front door her feet were almost flying; she wrenched the door open and all but flung herself out into the street, her eyes desperately searching for any sign of her elusive teacher.
"Erik!" she called into the darkness, snowflakes landing in her hair and on her shoulders; as one hit her eyelashes she remembered that she had not put up her hood. Her scarf was upstairs on Madame Giry's coat rack; Erik would not be pleased to see her wandering around in the freezing night with nothing to protect her throat. "Erik, are you there? Speak to me, please; I've been so worried about you."
There was no answer, and with a heavy heart Christine trudged the length of the street, her gaze darting this way and that in case she might catch a glimpse of the edge of his cloak disappearing around a corner, but she saw nothing and by the time she was back at the Girys' door she was cold and her shoes were damp from the snow, slush soaking the hem of her dress. It was Christmas Day and she should have been overflowing with happiness, rejoicing in the glad tidings that the night had brought, but she found she could summon up no more than a dull, hollow ache inside. It felt as though something were missing right at her very core.
Angel of Music
Why so lonely?
Where is your beautiful smile?
The voice in her ear made Christine jump, but she relaxed once more as she felt light hands on her hood, drawing it gently over her hair, and she knew that he was standing behind her, not using more of his vocal magic. She turned, joy and relief flooding her chest, to see him looking down at her with snowflakes on the brim of his hat and a faint frown creasing the visible side of his forehead. Impulsively she threw her arms around him, embracing him tightly and startling him so much that he nearly dropped the violin case he was carrying. Unused to such close physical contact, he was cold and rigid in her arms, his free hand fluttering uselessly around her head before it finally landed softly upon her back, laying there like the touch of a butterfly, barely touching her.
"Oh, thank goodness!" she cried into the thick cashmere of his winter cloak, her voice muffled by the expensive material. "I've been so worried!"
Any other man might have returned her embrace or rested his chin upon the top of her head, but not Erik. He was always careful to maintain a certain distance between them and would not alter that no matter how much Christine might inwardly yearn for it. She knew that she had overstepped a line and pulled back a little so that she could see his face. His frown had deepened. "Worried, Christine? What could possibly worry you at such a time as this? You love Christmas, do you not?"
"I do, but I always love it better when I spend it with those I care about. Where have you been, Erik?" Christine asked, lifting a hand to drape the black wool scarf a little more securely around his neck. "I looked everywhere for you."
"My apologies, my dear; I became caught up in my work and quite forgot the date until this evening. I found Antoinette's invitation in Box Five; it was very thoughtful of her but I cannot possibly - "
"I came down to your house yesterday," she told him, the slightest trace of accusation in her tone. "It was empty; there was no sign of you at all."
"I ran out of ink and had to purchase a fresh supply; with so many seasonal visitors to the managers I could not risk appropriating some from their stores. Christine..." Erik bent his head slightly so that he could meet her gaze; there was confusion in his mismatched eyes. "Surely you cannot have been... were you worried... for Erik?"
Christine found she didn't know whether to laugh or cry. Instead she settled for tugging on his scarf until they were almost nose to nose. "Of course I was, you silly man! You are one of my dearest friends and when I couldn't find you I was scared that something might have happened."
To her surprise Erik closed his eyes and a long, shuddering sigh ran through him. "Oh, Christine," he breathed, and for a moment there was such longing in his voice that she thought (and somewhere deep inside hoped) he might kiss her. She braced herself, her own eyes fluttering shut, but nothing happened and she felt an unfamiliar shiver of disappointment in her stomach. Opening her eyes once more she saw that Erik was smiling, and though that smile was slightly crooked and lop-sided because of his mask she quite suddenly thought it was one of the most beautiful things she had ever seen. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you for caring enough to worry about me. No one else apart from Antoinette has ever done so."
"Will you come inside?" she asked, catching hold of his gloved hand and holding it between her own. He looked down, as though he couldn't quite believe this unprecedented physical contact between them. "Please, Erik; it's cold out here and there is far too much food for the three of us."
"No, Christine." He tried to pull away but she held on tight. "I don't belong at anyone's Christmas table."
"How can you believe that?" Christine cried, and she thought she saw his eyes narrow in the shadows cast by his hat.
"Because it is true," he snapped, lip curling. "Monsters, outcasts, are welcome nowhere! I learned that lesson well many years ago, probably before you were even born." Taking a deep breath, his fingers nearly crushing hers, he visibly tried to calm himself, to bring his anger under control. "Go back inside, Christine, please. I am a bitter old man, and no fit companion for you tonight."
"All the more reason for you to be with friends," she insisted, and when she stubbornly refused to let him go he sighed again, this time in frustration.
"Christine - "
"Please come inside, Erik." There was the sound of a window opening from above, and glancing up Christine could see it did not belong to the Girys' apartment. "We're starting to attract attention; your performance gained quite an audience."
"What will people say if they see you taking in gentleman callers at this time of night?" Erik asked, his resistance finally buckling at the thought that he might be the object of unwelcome scrutiny; reluctantly he allowed her to pull him towards the front door, and Christine allowed herself a tiny smile of triumph.
"They will say that it is quite typical of a chorus girl," she replied. "Half the occupants of the building are theatrical people; no one will care, and if they do choose to gossip I will not hear them because I live three miles away on the opposite side of town."
There wasn't much he could say to that, but as he closed the door behind them she thought she heard him chuckle and it warmed her heart.
At the sight of Erik on the threshold Madame Giry let out a little cry, whether of joy or relief Christine couldn't be sure.
The Phantom looked quite overcome as he was ushered into the little apartment, his snow-covered hat and cloak taken from him, and quickly ensconced in the biggest armchair beside the fire. Madame exclaimed over how cold he had become and offered him a blanket which he politely refused with a rather perplexed smile, insisting that the warmth of the flames was all he needed to chase away the chill. Christine found her own smile growing wider as she hung up her cloak and watched the ballet mistress plying him with food and drink, piling a plate high and telling him with a gimlet stare well known to the girls in the corps de ballet that she expected him to eat every bite.
"Lord knows, you do little enough to feed yourself the rest of the year," she told him and he shot her a glare though it was obvious from where Christine stood that there was no anger in it, just affectionate irritation.
"I have more important things with which to concern myself, Annie," he replied, and she rolled her eyes with a tut of annoyance. As Madame turned away Erik gave Christine a pleading glance and, trying not to laugh, she surreptitiously removed some of the food from his plate. The corner of his mouth was twitching and she heard him say "Thank you" quite clearly in her ear though his lips never moved. As Madame Giry returned to the parlour with a large glass of wine he made a show of picking at some of the beef, eating some as best he was able around his mask.
Meg had hung back during all of this but as her mother took a seat on the sofa and Christine, out of habit, occupied the little tapestry stool at Erik's feet, she came properly into the room. Though she was obviously trying not to she could not help but stare at Erik as though he were some rare, exotic creature; Christine supposed that it must be rather disorientating to have the Opera Ghost, usually nothing more than an ethereal voice and a flash of white glimpsed high above in the rafters, making himself at home in your parlour. She hoped that now Meg could see him in front of her as a man, albeit a polished and well-dressed one, rather than a superstition or a spirit, her friend might find it easier to accept him; to his credit, Erik managed to ignore the curious gaze Meg directed at him and lifted his head, smiling at her as he instinctively straightened in his chair.
"Mademoiselle Giry," he said, and it seemed that his voice, to Christine's ears like melted chocolate, had a soothing effect upon Meg for she relaxed a little, daring to step closer. "It is a pleasure to meet you at last."
Almost instinctively Meg bobbed a curtsy. "Monsieur."
"You needn't defer to me, child. I am no better than you," Erik told her. He glanced at Madame Giry and added, "I thank you and your mother for inviting me into your home. It was a kind thing to do."
"I have told you more than once that you are always welcome here, Erik," the ballet mistress said. One of her rare smiles touched her lips. "But I am glad you came tonight."
They sat in companionable silence for a while, Madame keeping her beady eye upon her guest to make sure that he ate and drank to her satisfaction and Erik using his considerable talent at sleight of hand to make it appear that more food disappeared from his plate than was really the case. Christine was impressed; she had no idea where it went but by the time he handed back the plate it was empty and Madame looked rather pleased with herself. When her back was turned Erik held a finger to his lips and it was all Christine could do to fight back her giggles.
"Monsieur," Meg said, emboldened by the pleasant atmosphere; Erik arched a quizzical eyebrow. "We heard you singing earlier and it was quite beautiful. Will you... would you sing for us again?"
"I hardly ever sing by request, Little Meg," he replied, and her face fell.
"Would you sing if I asked you?" said Christine; he looked at her in surprise.
"Perhaps..." he said slowly. "But only if you would agree to join me."
Christine smiled broadly and Meg excitedly fetched Erik's violin; as she handed it to him he shook his head and sighed.
"It would appear I have no choice in the matter." Taking the violin from its case he tucked it beneath his chin and adjusted the pegs slightly, plucking gently at the strings until he was happy with the pitch. "Will you choose the song, Mademoiselle?"
"Beautiful Star that I Adore," Christine replied immediately, hearing Meg behind her clap her hands together in agreement.
"Oh, yes! Please sing that one; it's always been one of my favourites."
"Very well." Erik picked up his bow. "I think I recall the tune. If you will lead the way, Christine...?"
Gladly Christine lifted her voice, elated always by the opportunity to sing with her tutor. The carol was centuries old but glorious still and she threw herself into giving life to the words, closing her eyes and allowing the music to raise her on its wings, guided by Erik as he joined his golden tenor to her pure soprano, pushing her to even greater heights than she had already scaled in their lessons.
Beautiful star that I adore
Sun that shines for me,
It's you alone that I implore,
I want to love only you
It's my deepest desire,
Lord, on this beautiful day,
That I owe my life
Only to your great love.
Where he led, she followed; sometimes he stepped back, allowing her to take the lead before effortlessly drawing it in again, twisting about and surprising her, prompting her to forge ahead, her voice seemingly taking on a life of its own, as though she were merely a shell, a channel for a heavenly force beyond her control. For those few precious moments there was nothing else in the world but the two of them; the Girys' parlour, Madame and Meg, all seemed to vanish, chased away with other mortal cares as Christine flew hand in hand with the angels, the reality of a winter's night left far behind.
When the song came to an end her breath was short and there were tears in her eyes.
Concerned, Meg wrapped an arm around her shoulders as Christine struggled to regain control of herself. "Christine, what's the matter? Are you unwell?"
"No, no, I'm all right." Christine smiled weakly and patted her friend's hand. "I was just a little overcome by the moment."
"It was glorious," Meg told her, blue eyes serious. "Truly glorious. The angels must have wept to hear you."
"I think Christine is tired," Madame Giry said, and even though she wanted to protest Christine knew that it was true. "It is very late, and we have all had a long day."
For several seconds no one said anything but then Erik carefully snapped the violin case shut and got to his feet. "Indeed. I have kept you all up far beyond the realms of acceptability." He paused, as though considering something, and then asked, a little hesitantly, "Christine, may I... walk you home?"
She looked up at him in surprise. "Will it not worry you that we might be seen?"
The faintest smile touched his lips. "I am quite used to walking the city unobserved, I assure you."
In truth, Christine had not really considered how she was to get home; now that she did she admittedly did not relish the idea of wending her way alone through the ill-lit back streets in the early hours of the morning. "In that case, Monsieur," she said, returning his smile, "I would be very pleased to have your company."
A few minutes later, bundled up against the cold and having thanked the Girys' for their hospitality, they were making their way towards Christine's lodgings. Briefly she found herself flush with embarrassment at the thought of Erik seeing her tiny and rather shabby home, all she could afford on her salary from the Opera, but relaxed when she remembered that he was too much of a gentleman to accept an invitation to accompany her up to her rooms and that he probably already knew her situation as he did so much else about her.
Neither felt inclined towards conversation as they walked. Erik had rather shyly offered her his arm and seemed both startled and elated when she accepted it, tucking her hand through his elbow. He kept a proper distance between them, and though she would have liked to rest her drooping head on his shoulder Christine viewed even this small measure of contact as a victory.
"I wanted to ask you," she said as they reached the end of her street and stood for a moment below the failing gas lamp, "Why did you choose that song, the one you sang for us? You have always claimed to have no faith."
Erik sighed and looked at his feet. "On almost every other day of the year that would be true," he admitted. "But tonight... well, just for one night I allow myself to believe... to hope for something better; that my pitiful excuse for a life might somehow change. Sadly no such miracle has ever come to pass."
"Was this night no different, then?" Christine asked. He was silent for a moment, and then he raised his head to meet her gaze; his eyes, what little she could see of them in the shadows cast by the brim of his hat, were soft. "Not even a little?"
"Yes," he said quietly, and that smile, the one she had seen when he thanked her for caring, the one that she was somehow sure he reserved just for her, peeped out again. That same shiver ran through her at the sight of it. "Yes, I think perhaps it was."
Christine wanted to stand on her tiptoes and kiss him then but she didn't quite dare. Something had changed between them and she did not want to push or rush it. "I'm glad," she replied. "Maybe miracles do happen after all."
"Maybe they do," he agreed. After an awkward pause, during which it seemed neither of them knew quite what to do or say, he glanced up at the lowering sky. The snowflakes, which had been barely there during their walk, were thickening once more, covering the pavement beneath their feet. "You should go inside. The cold is not good for your voice."
She nodded, heavy feet taking her towards her door. As she reached it she turned back, to see him standing in the grimy pool of light cast by the lamp, little more than a silhouette. "Erik," she called, and he looked towards her, his mask gleaming briefly in the gaslight. "I'm so happy you came tonight."
His words were little more than a whisper on the breeze. "As am I, Christine. Merry Christmas."
Standing on her doorstep she watched him walk away, cloak swirling around him as he lifted a hand in salute before he disappeared into the shadows that were his realm. Christine sighed. "Merry Christmas, Angel."
Author's Second Note:
Bel Astre que j'adore is a French carol dating back to the fifteenth century. It has no English equivalent so the translation is literal, from About .com
I couldn't resist putting O Holy Night in there after hearing John Owen-Jones's beautiful new recording.
Have a lovely Christmas, everyone!