INCANDESCENT

DISCLAIMER: This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by: Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, Ben Elton, Frederick Forsyth, and including but not limited to various publishers and companies associated with The Phantom of the Opera since its first French publication in 1909/1910 and its first English publication in 1911. Any song lyrics from The Phantom of the Opera or Love Never Dies musicals referenced herein belong to Richard Stilgoe, Charles Hart, and Glenn Slater. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

A/N: Any discrepancies or liberties taken with historical persons, places, or events in this story are entirely my own.

I saw LND in June, and I was so inspired by the performances, particularly that of Bronson Norris Murphy as the Phantom, that it made me want to write again. Other than my story, "Something More," this is the first story I've written in over a decade. So, thank you to everyone who reads! It is much appreciated. Feedback is welcome. Cheers!

Chapter 1 – The Living Dead

He was alive!

How long had she wished for it? How long had she dreamed of it?

But the reality of it had shocked her!

Gustave had been playing with the music box, the one that had been given to him when they had first arrived at the hotel. Her son's blue eyes had danced with delight when the black box was handed to him, wrapped with a beautiful red and gold bow tied meticulously around the middle. He had eagerly opened it before they were unpacked, even before the attendants had left their suite. The tall barker—Dr. Gangle, he had introduced himself as with a sweeping bow at the docks—had promised to report back to his master the young boy's pleasure at the gift. When the man had mentioned his master, Christine had assumed he had meant Mr. Oscar Hammerstein. If she had known the truth then, she was not so certain she would have allowed the gift.

When the well-known impresario had invited the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny and his wife ("the soprano of the century" as the press sometimes called her, though Christine disliked the moniker, preferring to be called by her maiden and stage name of Daaé), along with their son, Gustave, to New York City, Christine had cautiously seen it as an opportunity to perhaps right some of the wrongs that had plagued her family of late. A new opera house in a new city! America was on the forefront of innovation and industry, buzzing with an energy and vigor that was lacking in the stuffy drawing rooms of Europe. Its people seemed eager to lead the world into the twentieth century. It was exciting, the thought of it energizing to her after so many years of suppressing her talent behind the closed doors of the privileged upper classes. To Christine, it was a chance for fresh starts!

She had read a bit about Mr. Hammerstein, the cigar mogul who was building his new Manhattan Opera House to rival the famous Metropolitan Opera. Born in Prussia, he had run away to America in his youth after selling his beloved violin. He was now a successful manufacturer, but his true love was music, particularly opera. And his enthusiasm for the art was breathing new life and popularity into a genre that was quickly becoming overshadowed by vaudeville variety shows. It was this passion for music, which came across in his letters, that had tipped the scales in convincing Christine to come to America. She was not, as was commonly thought by the public and particularly the press—as evidenced by the scathing comments from the reporters who had swarmed her family at the docks after disembarking from their ship, the Persephone, eager for a glimpse of the famous diva—doing this solely for the money.

She had departed the ship with a sense of purpose, a feeling of hope, dressed in her best red velvet traveling frock, head held high, but that quickly changed as she was surrounded by unfamiliar, though not entirely unfriendly faces, questioning why she and her family had come to America. She had said little, smiling and nodding at the crowd, but Raoul had been incensed to the point of being rude to them. Gustave had been an angel, of course. He had enjoyed the attention, talking to the people unguardedly of the places he wanted to see and the things he wanted to do while in New York. She had played along with her son, leaving Raoul to deal with the brunt of the questions. She was not looking forward to reading the articles regarding their arrival and, as she had done in London and Monte Carlo before that, decided she was determined to avoid the papers altogether.

Mr. Hammerstein had not been at the pier to greet them, as promised, and the ride in the bizarre horseless carriage that had magically appeared for them, amazing though it was, set her teeth on edge. Raoul was displeased, barking at the drivers now and again, outraged that they had not been met in person by the man who had promised them the moon and the stars in his letters. Perhaps, after all, they—like so many others in this ever-changing city—were just a novelty; a novelty that didn't even warrant a proper greeting from their host. Perhaps he had been too busy to bother, or maybe he wasn't as excited about their coming as he had appeared in his letters. Either way, it instilled in Christine a sense of foreboding she had not felt when they had left England for America on this strange journey. When she had stepped off the ship onto the pier, it had felt like the hands of fate were leading her, but the ominous feeling in the pit of her stomach as she rode in the carriage would not go away, and her unease only increased as Raoul later lamented on their situation a little too loudly as Gustave played with the music box in the corner of their spacious hotel sitting room.

Her son was the only one enjoying himself, his childlike innocence and glee at their arrival apparent in his every gaze and gasp and guffaw as they traveled to Coney Island. Coney Island! Well, it was not Manhattan. But Gustave was getting his wish. He was getting to see the sights he had only dreamed about when they were back in London. His wonder and delight at the carriage, his eyes alight on the astonishing marvels out the window, was palpable. The crowds were thick, the seaside beautiful, and they had only had a brief glimpse of the astounding place through the windows of the carriage. But everywhere, Coney Island was positively teeming with life and movement and energy.

When they had passed through black wrought-iron gates and pulled up to a large hotel complete with towers and turrets like a fairytale castle, her heart had fluttered in her chest. Why did she suddenly feel faint? Descending the carriage, passing off her feeling as merely fatigue from their journey, her eyes lifted to the sign above the striped red and white hotel awning. Mister Y's Phantasma. For a moment, she thought her eyes were deceiving her, and she quickly dropped her gaze to the ground, concentrating with too much care on the steps beneath her. Despite this, she nearly stumbled out of the carriage.

"Mother?" asked Gustave with concern. "Are you all right?"

He put out his hand to steady her, already a gentleman at the age of ten. Raoul hopped out of the carriage behind them and ascended the hotel steps before them without a backward glance.

"Yes. I'm fine, darling," she reassured him, glaring in Raoul's direction. Whatever faint feeling she had experienced the moment before was gone. And she had raised her chin, her arm entwined with her son's, the proud opera diva once more as she and Gustave followed Raoul into the hotel.

Later, as she stared out the hotel windows near the balcony at the lights—what lights!—glittering in the distance as the sun set, she sighed with resignation. She did not want to argue with Raoul, not in front of Gustave.

"We need the money," she had said meekly, almost off-handedly to her husband with her head down, not willing to meet his eyes, as if she were blaming all their problems on that alone. Raoul thought she was blaming him. As insistent as he had been that they come to New York, he now sounded like he was regretting it.

The truth was that money was the least of their problems. She had been poor before, had grown up poor, and she was not afraid of poverty. No, if it were only about the money, they would not be here, in an unfamiliar land, peddling her skills to someone she had never met, someone she had only read about in the newspapers, who had sent letters to her husband as if he were her business manager. And perhaps that was what he was now; that's what they had become. Partners in business—if not in life and love—and certainly not equals. She had not even been included in the correspondence between the two men, as if her opinion did not matter. And the initial decision to come to America had largely been Raoul's, as they had fled Monte Carlo and later London, boarding the Persephone as if the devil himself had been on their heels.

She had not asked Raoul about Monte Carlo, had avoided the gossip columns and ignored the whispered chatter that followed them around like an unwanted rain cloud. She had said little in London when the last letter had arrived from Mr. Hammerstein addressed to him. Raoul did have the courtesy to ask her if she would go, if she would sing, if not for his sake then for Gustave's. He often used Gustave as a bargaining chip between them. He had not begged, but she had seen the desperation in his eyes, the fear if she said no. What would happen to them if she said no? So, she had agreed, never confiding her own reasons for doing so.

She had sung little after they had left Paris, that light in her dying as the music gradually faded to a dull pinpoint in her life, and even less once they were established in London. She had led a rather empty life as a wife, hosting small social gatherings and soirees for her husband and his friends and business associates. She did not like London society. It made her feel weary and resigned. It suffocated her creativity and snuffed out her desire to express her art, like extinguishing a candle in the dark. And she feared perhaps the light would have died from her completely, if not for Gustave.

Oh Gustave! He had saved her! After losing her father, after losing him, she wasn't sure how to go on with her life. She had felt dead inside. The weeks following that shocking obituary notice in the newspaper L'Epoque ("Erik is dead!") were spent in despair and mind-numbing melancholy. She could scarcely believe it, wouldn't believe it! He couldn't be gone! He couldn't be dead! But as the minutes and hours turned into days, and the days into weeks, with nothing to prove the newspaper wrong, with no contradiction that the report was false, a horrible feeling of hopelessness fell over Christine. That same despondency that had settled over her after the death of her father returned. She could scarcely rise from bed to go through the motions of daily living, until one day she did not stir at all, and Raoul had become rather worried.

Raoul had moved her belongings from the little apartment in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires to his Paris manor where he could watch over her. He had settled her into his finest guest rooms and called in the best doctors that his money could buy as her eyes lost focus, as her skin paled and her hair became limp, as her body gave out and the fever overtook her.

Dissatisfied with their diagnoses, unable to accept their assertions that she would likely die, he eventually dismissed the physicians one by one until only Dr. Drouet remained. The kind, middle-aged man held out hope while the others did not. Raoul had even sent his long-time family physician packing, disregarding the many years of service he had devoted to his family. He would not accept defeat and had lost his temper one night when the man had suggested he was wasting his time on "a little chit who was not worthy of such protracted time and effort." Raoul had dismissed the doctor before he could say more. No doubt his aim had been to caution Raoul of his continued association with a chorus girl. It was nothing he had not heard before, the difference in their stations making such comments inevitable.

"To your own folly," the man had warned as he had slammed the front door behind him. And good riddance, Raoul had thought!

He had almost lost Christine then, and would have lost her, if Dr. Drouet had not intervened in that crucial moment when her life had been hanging delicately in the balance between life and death.

"Mademoiselle, you need to fight. You need to live! For the sake of your child, please don't give up," the doctor's soft voice had called to Christine amidst her fever dreams.

Raoul was not in the room. He was rarely in the room when the doctors attended her, and she did not want him there. She had said as much, had told the various doctors and their helpers, the maids and household staff, to send him away when he hovered too near her sick bed. If he had been hurt by her display of cold indifference to him during that time, he never showed it.

Christine tried to focus on the impossible words coming from Dr. Drouet's lips as her eyes fluttered open.

She had been dreaming of Erik! She wanted to rejoin him in that place where she had left him, all smoke and mist and candlelight, that world of music that was fading away as each day passed. It had been so warm and inviting there. Not like here! Eyes open, the pain had gripped her. She felt cold despite the numerous blankets covering her. She wanted to descend back into the darkness, but the doctor's words had jarred her out of that peaceful place.

Child! But no, that couldn't be right! She had surely misheard him. She could scarcely breathe or move her body, which was weighted down by illness and apathy, but her eyes met the doctor's, and she saw the truth of his words, the concern evident on his weather-beaten face.

Dr. Hugo Drouet came to be a friend during a time when she desperately needed one. The other doctors had been impersonal. Dr. Drouet was different. A man of middle income, middle means, she wasn't sure how he had ended up at the Chagny estate. He had merely appeared one day with the others, coming in and out of her room on a clockwork basis. She remembered his lilting voice reading to her when the others had exited the room with their cold instruments and probing fingers. He had given her something that smelled of candy to help her rest. He had gently helped her to sip her tea. He had spoken to her of the many topics going on outside the walls of the estate. He had told her stories; he had made her laugh. She didn't think it was possible to do so anymore, the delirium bringing her in and out of consciousness. Everyone else was so grave and serious. But those moments when she was lucid, she remembered his presence always being at her bedside.

Later, she recalled how he had held her hand as though he were her fond uncle instead of her physician. She remembered his words as plainly as if they had been spoken to her yesterday.

"I do not judge you. Truly I do not," he had said one day after her fever had broken, and she was sitting up in bed. She was still too weak, but some color had returned to her face.

"May I speak plainly, mademoiselle?" he asked.

She nodded, not sure she wanted to hear what he had to say. But he had been so courteous to her. She knew she must hear him out.

"You and the Vicomte are not married," he stated the obvious after some silence. "And in the eyes of some, this would be seen as a sin, a mortal sin."

An unmarried woman with a child. She knew she would be looked down upon by the church and many of its followers. Raoul was staunchly Catholic. And while her mother had shared that religion, her father had been Lutheran. She had been too young when her mother had died to remember much, and her father had never been particularly devout in his faith. A cathedral or an open field, a prayer or a simple story, a hymn or a folksong—they were all the same to her father, who had been a preacher of kindness and good deeds rather than an advocate of pious speeches when it came to matters of the church.

If she told Raoul the truth of her child, even if he accepted her, were it to be known outside of the family, it would cause a terrible scandal. He may not even marry her. She wasn't sure how she felt about this. She thought she could bear his anger, even his desertion—and he would be justified in doing so. But she was less certain she could handle it if the truth were to become known, as these things so often did once one person was told. She would not want Raoul to have to carry such a burden. The thought of thrusting her trials upon others was unthinkable to her.

"I am a man of the world," the doctor continued. Her mind had drifted; she had almost forgotten he was there. "And I have been in love. I was lucky enough to know the love of a woman, to have the love of a child. Even if that child does not reside with me. A child is a gift, a blessing—no matter how the union was wrought."

He sighed deeply, and this was when she really looked at the doctor as though seeing him for the first time. There was a gray tinge to his blue-black hair. His dark eyes were kind, yet bright. There were lines around his mouth and deep grooves on his forehead. He had a fine, chiseled nose. All in all, he was very distinguished-looking, but carried a demeanor that made him respectably plain, average of features, if not handsome. And yet, there was an air of understanding, a twinkle of humor in his warm eyes, despite his modest appearance. He had lived in the world, as he had plainly said. He had experienced something, she wasn't sure what, that had made him sympathetic to her plight. She had already decided she liked him and trusted him. Perhaps one day, she would understand him better, for she realized she hardly knew him. As it was, they were speaking of her problems, not his, so she could only accept his offer of charity during a time when she desperately needed someone in whom she could confide.

The union, as he had put it, however, was a topic she wished to avoid. She wondered if the doctor thought, in their hasty feelings of youth, she and her fiancé had thrown away propriety in a moment of passion. She wondered if she should let him think it. But then he surprised her, his clarity on the matter astounding to her given the circumstances. Or maybe she was just naïve to the thoughts of others. It was obvious the man had already guessed otherwise of her condition.

"Am I correct in assuming the Vicomte is not the father?" the doctor asked quietly.

She stared at him a long while. After some time had passed, her gaze wandered to a ubiquitous spot on the white wallpaper above the fireplace, and she nodded.

"I see." He sighed again. He eyed her carefully. "And the father?"

"He is… gone." Christine could not bear to say he was dead; she could not even think it.

The doctor nodded. "Is there any chance of his return?" he asked gently, his voice full of sympathy and kindness.

She shook her head, tears welling up and threatening to overflow from her red-rimmed eyes.

The doctor looked grave.

"You loved him?" It wasn't really a question.

"Yes." Christine turned away, gazing at the gauzy curtains blowing gently in the breeze from the open window. She did not want the doctor to see her tears.

After a great pause, he said, "The Vicomte wishes to marry you. He speaks of little else beyond your welfare and well-being. And while I know little of his character, he has spoken to me openly and sincerely since I have entered this house. I believe he has your best interests at heart."

She nodded. She knew this was true, but her thoughts remained distant.

"I can't tell him," she whispered almost to herself. "It would break him."

And wasn't so much broken already? How could she willfully add to that glittering ruin?

The doctor assented, inclining his head in a thoughtful gesture.

"You know," the doctor said slowly, deliberately. "He need never know. You are not so far along. If you were married posthaste, the Vicomte would never know it was not his child. Many babies are born premature."

Christine looked at him fully now, slightly shocked at what he was suggesting. And yet, hadn't her mind already thought on it? In the hours since she had been told there was a life growing inside her, a life that was blossoming even as she felt her own life wilting away, had she not considered the very same thing?

"It may be your best option, if you feel you cannot tell the Vicomte the truth. I am generally an advocate for the truth. However, when the truth hurts others, it may be best to leave well enough alone. If there is no chance of the father's return, why hurt the Vicomte unnecessarily? I speak from experience, mademoiselle. Sometimes the truth can kill!" he whispered hoarsely and looked away, eyes downcast, and she wondered again at this man's past. She shuddered at his words.

"Forgive me the impertinence, but the Vicomte says that you have no family. What would you do otherwise? Where would you go? How would you live? At least, if you marry the Vicomte, you would be secure in the knowledge that you and your child would be provided for. I'm sure this other man who loved you would want what is best for you. I do not wish to be insensitive. The alternatives for a young, unmarried woman alone with a child are…" His words trailed off and he spread his hands in a sad gesture.

Christine knew her options were few. And Dr. Drouet was offering to assist her, to help conceal her secret and validate her decision should she choose to stay with Raoul. He would not tell Raoul the truth. He had alluded as much with his reference to her of his painful past. And no one else need ever know. It was the right thing to do, wasn't it? The only thing she could do?

But how could she do it? How could she marry Raoul under such false pretenses? How could she go on, raise Erik's child, without him? What would he have wanted for her? She felt she knew the answer and didn't like it.

Christine sighed sadly and nodded in understanding.

How could she live a lie?

"You are growing stronger by the day," said Raoul as he sat by her bed, one hand grasping hers while the other rested near her hair. He leaned in closer to her. "The doctor says you should be strong enough to venture out of the house by the end of the week. Perhaps I can bring you to Mass. Would you like that?"

His eyes looked hopeful. Christine's heart lurched with dread. Church, he was speaking of church. And with that thought came other thoughts unbidden. In that moment, she knew she would do it. She knew she would marry him, even though she knew in her heart of hearts, the realization hitting her like a sharp blow to the chest, that she did not want to do it. This decision had been coming at her gradually over the weeks, but she had not wanted to admit it to herself.

A scant two weeks later they were married, for it had to be in haste now, and she had insisted on it, even though Raoul had said she should take time to recover from her illness properly. They loved each other, he said. They could wait. He would wait for as long as it would take.

But it couldn't wait now, could it? She was more than a month along. She had to be married or this farce would soon come to light. She would not be able to hide it forever. So, she had insisted, had smiled and said she wanted nothing more in the world than to become his wife.

She did love Raoul. But it was not the same as her love for Erik. It had taken her too long to realize the truth. She loved Raoul with a girl's love for her childhood friend. It had been a juvenile crush, an adolescent stirring of first romantic love that no longer held any meaning for her other than a warm memory. She was fond of him; he was the safe choice. And there was nothing more to it. There was no passion, no soul-stirring devotion, no deep love in her heart for him. No, all of that belonged to Erik. Her heart and soul belonged to Erik! So, it was a lie, a terrible lie when she read her wedding vows, for she knew in her heart who she wanted to say those words of love and devotion to, and it was not to Raoul.

As time passed, she found it was easy to lie. For she loved stories, did she not? She had always loved the tales her father had told her, the ones the Bretons had passed along on doorsteps and at fairs, the "dark stories of the North." Only now the dark story was her own, concealed in shadow as her angel had once been concealed. And as he had once been obliged to hide the truth, so she too found herself unable or unwilling to reveal the reality of it all.

She imagined now she had an inkling of what Erik may have felt over the long years alone, suspended between two worlds, torn between two sides of oneself, like a ghost destined to lead a half-life forever grasping at a life out of one's reach.

She learned early on if she was dead inside, she did not have to feel. She could go through the motions, playing a part—the role of a lifetime.

Yes, over the years, Christine had become a very good liar.