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Though Christine had told Madame Giry that she needed rest, the truth was that she had actually slept quite well in the Phantom's lair.
What she needed was space: a safe space in which to air out the confusion and excitement and guilt that now saturated her pores. A space in which she could pace off the nervous energy taking over her muscles and nerves. A space where God could strike her down as punishment, if he so chose, for her indiscretions. And so she went home.
When she returned to the venue later that day for an encore performance of Hannibal, she had not yet been struck by lightning. She had spent the previous night in the company of a man, but her virtue remained intact. Nothing had happened.
But everything had changed.
Her stomach had flipped approximately five hundred times upon her first glimpse of her angel of music. He was a man. A man! Even now, holed up in her dressing room as she struggled to put on her costume, she flushed from head to toe to think that her guide and guardian—who had taken such a keen interest in her, who had taught her so much, who possessed a voice that could make her melt or weep—was of flesh and blood, muscle and sinew. Nervous laughter escaped her throat at the thought.
Of course, he had called himself a monster. A demon. He had the face of one, certainly, and he lived in a dark, damp underworld. He should have been the stuff of nightmares, but she had long heard his voice in her dreams, and she was certain that the previous night's serenade would do little to dissuade that. Perhaps now she would start dreaming of her own voice joining his. Seemingly overnight, her singing had progressed from the trickle of a clear spring to the full-bodied rush of a glossy river, strengthening and expanding as it forged new paths through uncharted territory. He had done that.
No, she had done that, she realized. He was the catalyst.
And therein lay the reason why she now found herself considering the intimate musical partnership that he had proposed, even if it meant spending her days in isolated darkness.
A gentle rap on the dressing room door startled her from her reverie. She opened it to peer into the sympathetic and world-weary face of Madame Giry, sober as ever in her raven-black attire and tightly coiffed hair. "I am sorry to disturb you, my dear," she said as Christine showed her into the room. "Are you feeling any better?"
"A bit, thank you, Madame. And your timing is perfect; I am in awful need of help with this dress."
Madame Giry positioned herself behind Christine and began to lace up the back of the garment. "I am afraid I come bearing unwelcome news," she said, "but I thought it best delivered by a friend."
"Please, do go on."
"La Carlotta has returned. The managers insist that she is to play the lead in Il Muto, and you have been assigned the role of the pageboy."
"The silent role," Christine said. She felt the urge to laugh again.
"Yes, my dear." Madame Giry finished fussing with the dress and patted her shoulder reassuringly. "I am truly sorry. But, think of it this way: you have been plucked from the ballet and put under the spotlight; it can only get better from here."
Christine nodded. "Yes, you are right," she replied, and she meant it sincerely; just weeks ago, she would have given her right arm to play the pageboy.
The two of them exchanged pleasantries for another few minutes before Madame Giry saw herself out. Christine put on her shoes and began to warm up her voice, her thoughts still preoccupied by an enigmatic composer in a fedora.
There was another knock on the door, this one louder and more assertive. "Christine? May I come in?"
Raoul! Surely his presence would ground her, or at the very least provide a compelling counterpoint to the fantastical thoughts that she was currently entertaining. Her stomach had flipped upon seeing him, too, but in a different way—the clichéd butterfly sort of way. With her angel, it had felt like a free fall.
She had barely opened the door before he barrelled across the threshold to grasp her by the shoulders. "Dear God, Christine, I was so worried," he said. "Where on earth did you disappear to?"
She bit her bottom lip, her face pleading with him to accept something that she knew he could never actually comprehend. "I cannot tell you," she said, "but please believe me when I say that I had no ill intent. It was terribly rude of me to leave you like that, and I am so sorry."
His brilliant blue eyes probed her face for clues, their luster fading at the realization that she would give nothing away. "You are almost exactly the same as I remember you," he said quietly, reaching out to tug at a lock of her hair. "Back then, though, you were happy to be in the moment. Now, it seems as though you yearn for something just out of your reach." He flashed her a small smile. "You are still beautiful, of course...and decidedly less awkward."
She smiled and swatted playfully at his arm. "It is good to see you, Raoul," she admitted.
He grasped her hands, waiting until he had her uninterrupted gaze to speak. "I would very much like to catch up. Please say that you will see me after the performance tonight."
She ached to say yes, to feel the familiar comforts of her childhood, but still quaked at invoking her angel's disapproval. "I shall see what I can do," she said finally.
He pursed his lips and nodded. "I suppose that is better than nothing," he conceded. He squeezed her hands and continued, "I must take my leave. Forgive me if I am too forward, but there was something that I regretted not giving you before we parted all those years ago, and I would like for you to have it now."
"Yes, Raoul?" she asked, but his intentions were plain in his face and in the way he now tilted his head. Her heart skipped a beat as he lifted his hands to cradle her jawline: she had never been kissed before.
She closed her eyes as his lips pressed into hers, warm and yielding. They did not linger long—only enough for her to learn their taste (cognac) and marvel at how they could be firm and pillowy at the same time. When he pulled away, she felt the faintest hint of stubble as her nose brushed against his skin; it was rough, like sandpaper, but she did not mind.
Once he had left, extending his best wishes for her performance, she recalled that blond-headed boy of fourteen and how he had so valiantly—foolishly, really—plunged into the frigid sea to fetch her red scarf after a teasing wind had loosed it from her neck. She had been too naive at the time to realize that his showmanship had nothing to do with a scrap of wool and everything to do with her.
And yet...her eyes darted to the coat rack across the room, where the same scarf hung with her cloak after all these years. She walked over to retrieve it and hugged the bundle of wool to her chest; it felt warm. Safe.
The Phantom's lair, by contrast, was cold. So cold.
She sat at the dressing table and set the scarf aside, running her finger down the edge of the silver frame that housed the sole remaining photograph of her father. "What would you have wanted me to do?" she murmured.
Her father promised her that he would send her the angel of music. Her father promised her…
She sat up straight. Did not the Psalms say that God would command his angels to guard those who sought refuge in Him? Did not the Epistle to the Hebrews advise, "Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares"? Perhaps it was not wholly impractical to consider that the voice of heaven had been planted behind a horrific, decaying face as a means of testing her faith. Whether that might be her faith in God or her faith in her father—perhaps even both—she could not say.
The thought pushed away any amount of certainty that she may have gleaned from Raoul's sweet, promising kiss.
She soon became distracted by the arrival of her hairdresser, and then places were called and she was back on stage. Though she sang for a packed house, she knew that there were only five people for whom she was truly performing: her managers and Raoul; her opera ghost, unseen but no doubt listening; and her father, from up in heaven.
She envisioned herself as a simple gear or cogwheel in a larger machine, spun this way and that at the urging of the men surrounding her. They loomed large and relentless, making her dizzy and wearing her down over time, polishing away any rugged imperfections as the sea might toss about a small stone. She was never discourteous or disobedient, never late for rehearsal, never a bother, never...anything.
And then she was struck with the most terrifying, exhilarating thought: The machine could not function properly without that small wheel. She was important. She had value. More than that, she was now a grown woman whose destiny did not have to lie in the hands of another adult.
As she took her final bows and headed back to her dressing room, she entertained an even more scandalous idea: What if that wheel were to just...break off of the machine and roll away? Where would it finally come to rest?
She closed her eyes and imagined herself stripped away of all obligation. Employment: gone. Financial stability: gone. Ties of friendship: brushed aside. She could not so easily sweep aside honoring her father's memory, so instead she envisioned it in a locked chest, hidden safely out of sight. Whatever is left is your one truth, she told herself.
When she saw it, she smiled in fond recognition. It was obvious in hindsight: music, shucked of all related politics and ticket prices and pinching costumes and admirers; music so transcendent that she lost sense of her position in time and space. She had gotten a taste of it the night before, feeling the mounting freedom of her voice leaving her body as the notes climbed higher and higher until she had the sense of her entire self leaving her body.
Her angel had intuited her deepest desires, and he had handed her the opportunity to fulfill them. But with it came one of the obligations that her mind had just cast aside: him.
Of course, she considered, a gear by itself was useless; paired with the right component to keep it running, however, it could become its own small machine. Perhaps it was a matter of finding that perfect complement. This would require further research.
She had to do it now, before she was accosted by devotees and managers and one lovely, sandy-haired gentleman. She locked the dressing room door behind her, inhaled sharply, and approached the full-length mirror until she stood mere inches away. "Oh, I hope you are there," she whispered, "or I fear I shall not have the strength to call on you again." She reached out with trembling fingers to unhinge the latch that she now knew was hidden just behind the side of wooden frame. The mirror swung open.
When her eyes adjusted to the darkness in the exposed passageway, they met his smoldering gaze.
For a long moment, there was no sound or movement as they stared each other down; she literally forgot to breathe. And then he spoke: "You were looking for me, angel?"
There was the slightest hint of satisfaction in his tone, and it was enough to ground her again. "Yes," she said. "I wish to discuss the terms and conditions of your offer."
If he was surprised, he did not show it. "By all means," he encouraged.
"I will start with a question: Do you think of me as a child?"
He cocked his head like a spaniel. "I beg your pardon?"
"Do you think of me as a grown woman or as a child? Last night would suggest the former, yet you so often instruct and chastise me as one would a petulant schoolgirl." She could barely sustain eye contact, but she resolved to speak her piece. "I am, in fact, a grown woman and am ready to be treated as such. Please," she added, unable to banish entirely the nervous capitulation that so often laced her voice.
His lips parted wordlessly, and his eyes darted down her figure and back up again to stare at her in wonder. "Yes, of course," he replied, his voice almost hoarse. "I see now that I was mistaken in some of my...interactions."
Pleased and emboldened by his reaction, she continued. "As for the matter of your earlier unmasking"—he tensed—"I apologize for my impulsive behavior and promise to respect your privacy going forward. But you must never, ever again treat me as you did this morning."
Eyes wide with regret, he nodded and promised his reformation. When she was satisfied, he asked, "Is there anything else, Christine?"
"Yes. I—I need you to...kiss me. Please."
He blinked at her as though waiting for explanation. When it did not come, he gingerly stepped out of the passageway to remove his cloak and fedora. Her breath hitched at the sight of his commanding posture and impeccable dress, and even more at the way he eyed her with a sudden, primeval hunger.
She had not even realized that she was backing away from him until he wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her to him, and then her legs turned to jelly.
"My angel," he whispered. His fingers combed through her hair to settle at the base of her head, which he drew forward as he claimed her mouth with his own. He applied a slow, gentle pressure at first, plying her lips with such eager tenderness that she found herself giving in, parting her lips, pressing back, winding her arms around his neck.
The pressure between their lips began to build, the frequency of the kisses increasing, and she emitted a surprised mewling sound as his tongue shot out to graze hers. She felt him smile against her mouth, and he pulled her even tighter against his chest as he continued his ministrations.
When he finally released his hold on her, the room grew still, save for their ragged breathing. She knew he was waiting for her to speak, but she was lightheaded and waiting for the air to return to her lungs.
"Are you alright, Christine?"
"Yes," she managed to squeak out, still somewhat breathless. "Yes, that was...very informative. Thank you." She made her way to the dressing table to sit down before her legs gave way, rummaging through the drawers to find pen and paper. "If you will excuse me for a moment, I must draft some urgent correspondence before we continue."
Miraculously, he did not question her, instead pacing the perimeter while she wrote letters to her managers, to Raoul, to Madame Giry and Meg. The notes all varied slightly in their verbiage and tone, but they carried the same message: She was leaving straightaway to study with a great vocal instructor, and though she would miss everyone terribly and promised to write, they should not expect her return.
When the last letter was sealed and placed neatly on the dressing table, she turned to her opera ghost and said, "I must be clear on something, Monsieur. Though I am happy to continue serving as your muse, I am coming with you to sing not for your benefit, but for mine. It ought to be a mutually beneficial partnership, don't you think?"
His eyes were so wide with surprise and gratitude, it was as though he had never dared to hope that she would accept him. He picked up her hand and brought it to his lips. "I will see to it that you never regret your choice for the rest of your days," he said, "so long as you are certain that where you belong is with me."
She plucked the red scarf from her dressing table to wrap it securely around her slender neck, and then she picked up the framed photograph as well. She would be forever grateful for her father's love and her childhood comforts, and she would carry them with her should she ever need warmth on the nights when music was not enough to fill her soul.
When she stood to regard her angel, though, she felt the heat crackling between them and supposed that those nights would be few and far between. "I am certain," she said.
"Then come, my angel of music," he beckoned softly, and he extended his hand. She laced her fingers through his and followed him to her freedom.