Wandering Child

Chapter One:

The Secret of the Mirror

How I would like your breath on me,

your frail body

and coming to your aid in every unsteady step and

hugging you with passion.

If your kisses were true

born from a pure feeling

I would give you everything, everything you want

but not freedom, I'm not giving it to you.

I know you can give me paradise

but I was born free

what a Bitter Love of yours, that caught you in a vice

and has no mercy of you.

Christine laughed—a soft, tinkling sound like wind chimes stirring in a breeze—and blushed apple-blossom pink. Raoul sighed contently and thought, this is it. This is happiness. And he wished with all his heart that he could fold this moment up and put it in a box somewhere, so he could go back and relive it time and time again. Christine flashed him an indulgent smile as she politely ignored the tea he'd served her and plucked a lemon wedge from the plate, taking her time to pull out the seeds before squeezing the juice into a glass of cool water. Raoul didn't mind; he loved watching her little mannerisms, learning her habits. She was a fascinating creature to him.

"So, is she really as bad as people say?" Raoul inquired, taking note of the way Christine's mouth quirked into a subtle smirk that vanished just as quickly as it came. Of course, Carlotta was as wretched as he'd heard, but the Christine he knew would never say anything untoward about anyone.

"Oh, you don't know the half of it," Christine said suddenly, leaning over. "She's positively vile," she whispered harshly. Well, he hadn't been expecting that, but he didn't have time to contemplate this newest development. It seemed that Christine—along with the other performers at the Opera house—had plenty to say about their number one soprano and suddenly Raoul felt completely overwhelmed.

Apparently, Carlotta was just impossible to get along with. She was constantly snatching songs—notably solos—from the other performers. She harangued the maestro, screamed at the stage crew, and bullied the attendants. The costumes were never the right fit, the songs were never written properly, the chorus girls were never good enough, the rehearsals were too long, even though she never shows up on time—if at all! Oh and the pay was too low. When she didn't get her way she would throw horrible tantrums—screaming and cursing, throwing anything she could get her hands on at anyone unfortunate enough to be in her way, and crying that the world was dead set against her and why should someone who works so hard suffer such indignities and disgrace. Christine threw her hands to the heavens and imitated Carlotta's accent, which when Carlotta spoke, sounded imitated as well. Raoul laughed.

"You know, she thinks you and I are engaged in some sort of love affair," Raoul said, smirking, remembering Carlotta—her face layered in makeup, her nails done in garish rouge—fuming and waving those red talons at his face. "She kept saying that I'm the one who keeps writing the mangers to get you the leading role in Il Muto." At the time, he'd been too offended to laugh, but now that he looked back on it, the whole exaggerated ordeal seemed very hilarious.

"You, the Opera Ghost?" Christine said, and something about the way she said it sent a chill through him, silencing him completely. Christine, however, gave an almost bitter chuckle and said, "That's too rich."

"Are you upset, Christine?"

"Not exactly. Annoyed, really." Christine plucked a pastry from the plate and ran her finger over the top, catching just a bit of sugar on her finger and bringing it to her lips, savoring it slowly, letting it dissolve on her tongue. "I'm not surprised to hear her say such things. Her attendants have said that that's how she was able to get into the spotlight. Oh, she can sing, she's talented, and there's no denying that she has a certain flair for this business, but on her own she would never have reached the heights that she has. Besides," Christine added, taking in another sweep of sugar. "She hasn't been keeping up with her training. She eats and drinks whatever she wants with no regard for how it affects her and all of that screaming has done some damage as well. Her voice is beginning to fail; it's only a matter of time."

"I didn't think she sounded so bad," he said, not taking the time to think about it before it left his lips. The look Christine gave him made him instantly regret that. It wasn't anger or indignation—but rather a more humiliating mixture of compassionate understanding. It was as look that said, of course you wouldn't understand, you just don't know any better, which seemed much worse. And suddenly, Raoul felt as if the table had suddenly grown much longer and Christine now sat very far away… miles away… sipping her water and wondering to herself what she ever thought she saw in such a simple man who couldn't tell the difference between a woman who could belt out a melody and a true singer who could sway your very soul with her voice. One who could make angels weep…

"I should probably be going," Christine said, unknowingly playing into Raoul's worst thoughts.

"Must you leave so suddenly?" he asked before he could help himself. Christine gave him a strange look as if he'd missed something important.

"I told you that I had an unbreakable engagement tonight."

"You mentioned a lesson," Raoul said casually, carefully folding his napkin and placing it beside his plate. He'd ordered the finest assortment of pastries and chocolates only to discover that Christine no longer cared for any sweets of any kind—or more precisely, that she was not allowed to care for them any longer. All of this, the tea included, was due to the strict instructions of her mysterious tutor. All of this was in the name of preserving and taking proper care of her voice.

Of course Raoul understood the sentiment. When something was truly precious to you, you did everything in your power to keep it safe. Raoul watched as Christine took the time to finish her water, her eyes closed, demure. There was something very off about that tutor of hers. After her glorious triumph during Hannibal, she'd disappeared right after they'd been reunited. She had mentioned something about her teacher's strictness, but Raoul had brushed away her protests and insisted she come out with him to celebrate. Then she just disappeared. He looked up and saw Christine gently dabbing her lips with her napkin, little drops of water clinging to her lips like dew before she blotted them away. Raoul wanted to reach over and kiss those lips—he wanted to pull Christine into his arms and make her swear that she would never leave his side again. It was shocking to Raoul to say the least. This was Christine—his Little Lotte. But the protested sounded flat and pathetic even in his mind and he quickly realized two very important things: one, his feelings for Christine were decidedly no longer platonic and two, he didn't trust this tutor of hers one bit.

"You could always skip a lesson," he said, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible while Christine stared at him as if he'd sprouted a second head. Well, you couldn't blame a man for trying. "One night of good company will surely be excused."

"Raoul, you know I treasure spending time with you, surely you know that." And he did, but he wasn't in the mood to admit it and make her feel better. There was a long list of good things people could say about Raoul, but even so, he was still a bit childish and hated to share. "However, as I'm sure I've said before, my tutor is a very stringent perfectionist who demands nothing less than my absolute devotion."

"To him or your art?" Oh, God, did he say that out loud? Christine narrowed her eyes at him. Damn. Yes, it appeared he had, but he stamped down on his shame and cocked his head at her, defiant and demanding. He wanted answers.

"I don't feel the need to dignify that with a response." Her voice even, but sharp like a razor that sliced through the skin before the nerves could even register the pain.

"The night I saw you after the opening gala, I went to your room and arranged to take to out to dinner—" Raoul noticed with an unexpected jolt of dread that Christine looked apprehensive. She knew exactly what he was talking about—she knew exactly what he was going to say… what he was going to ask her. "—when I arrived to pick you up, your door was locked and there was a man's voice coming from inside your dressing room—" Raoul was starting to feel unreasonably angrier and angrier as he went on. It was her face—she knew something—she was hiding something! "—then when I finally broke through, you were gone. You'd disappeared like smoke into thin air and now you're back as though nothing happened." Christine looked simultaneously horrified and defiant, almost as though she was daring him to continue, to push her into a corner and force her to confess everything she was holding back. "What really happened that night?"

Christine regarded him silently. Perhaps she was waiting to see if he really wanted to know the answer, but the look in his eyes was clear enough. After a moment's pause, she sighed and looked mournfully at the clock behind Raoul's head. Now it wouldn't matter if she leapt over the balcony and sprinted as fast as she could—she was going to be late. Christine had never missed a lesson and never ever been late. She had no idea how he was going to handle this…

"Raoul," she began carefully, keeping her voice steady and clear. "You know I care for you—you're a wonderful friend and I know you're only acting this way out of brotherly love…" and Christine didn't notice how Raoul flinched at that. "However, what happened that night has absolutely nothing to do with you. Certainly, nothing untoward happened as you so tactfully suggested, but please understand that my private affairs are not open for discussion." Christine tossed her napkin beside her plate. "Good night, Raoul and thank you for your company." There was no sarcasm in her voice, but nor was there any pause. So, with a slight bow of the head she turned and walked towards the door. Raoul didn't hesitate as he bolted for the table and seized her hand.

"Christine—I'm so sorry—please don't be angry at me." Oh, if his older brother could see him now, clinging to the hand of yesterday's chorus girl and begging her forgiveness. He could practically hear the laughter in his head and see the sneer on his face, but all of this was dispelled the moment Christine turned and pulled him into a warm embrace. Raoul lost himself in the sweet sensation of her arms wrapped around his neck and her breasts pressed carelessly against his chest. In her head, Christine could hear the clocking tick, tick, ticking away and the more it ticked the worse she felt, but she couldn't just pull away now. Raoul sounded so desperate, so vulnerable at that moment—she couldn't just abandon him.

But oh, she was going to be so late!

"Raoul," she said, hoping that the anxiousness in her voice would pass for concern. "Of course, I'm not angry with you."

"You were," Raoul said softly, letting his hands settle over her back and breathing in the delightful scent of her hair, trying to memorize it. "But I understand." And he didn't, but it seemed to be what she wanted to hear so he said it anyway. Apparently, it worked because she held him tighter and he noticed with a surge of joy that the top of her head fit perfectly right under his chin. He smiled and pulled away just far enough to look into her eyes. This was a little trick he'd seen his older brother perform countless times before. Women seemed to recognize this little movement as something significant and if the light in Christine's eyes was anything to go by, she was the same. "Don't leave me," he said, stroking her cheek and marveling at the way her eyes fluttered shut. "Just stay with me," he whispered, leaning down. Christine trembled. Oh, if she could. She could just let it all go… leave all thoughts of the world you knew before.

"Raoul," she breathed, his name on her lips making his nerves sing and in that moment she could have asked for his very heart and he would have plucked it from his chest to give it to her. "I can't."

And time seemed to go much faster at that moment. One second she was standing in his arms, trembling with an emotion that Raoul had thought was desire only to suddenly evaporate before his eyes. She'd mumbled some sort of apology that he didn't quite hear, and he must have mumbled something back because she'd smiled kindly at him before she turned and left. It all happened so fast—like a parlor trick. Now you see her—swish—now you don't. He could just make out the faint clicking of her heals against the polished marble stairs. Then there was silence and Raoul was alone.

By the time Christine reached the Opera House, she was completely out of breath and her hair, which had been so neatly arranged in ribbons for Raoul, now hung in chaotic tendrils over her shoulders. But she didn't care what she looked like. She rushed through the side entrance and took the most direct path she could to her dressing room. When she reached the door, she grasped the handle and wrenched it open, sweeping inside and slamming the door behind her. Her chest felt like it was about the burst from lack of air and if she knew her tutor as well as she did, she knew he was going to be even more furious with her for her careless treatment of her body. Still, she took a moment to catch her breath and mentally prepare herself for him. It was a small blessing that Raoul had chosen a place just around the corner from the Opera House, but even though she'd ran as fast as she could, she was still nearly a quarter hour late. And that was simply unacceptable.

Still breathless, Christine made her way over to her vanity and glanced askance at the tall mirror that stood on the opposite wall. She could see her reflection staring back at her and the back of her head from the mirror on her vanity. The two reflections seemed to go on and on like a strange hallway of Christine's looking over her shoulder. She lowered her gaze and tried to calm her fraying nerves. He would be angry, yes he would be furious—but he would show up. Since the moment I first heard you sing, I have needed you with me, to serve me, to sing for my music… my music… Oh, God why was his voice always in her head. She couldn't sleep or dream or think without that voice making her drunk, making her think things she was certainly better off not thinking. Oh, but where was he? Why didn't he make his presence known? A small part of her wondered if this was not a good thing, but she silenced that thought as soon as it formed. If this was a mistake, she didn't care. If this was damnation, she'd welcome it even though she was afraid, oh so very afraid, she wanted this. He was like a mystic alchemist who could reduce her to mere particles and reform her into something beautiful and glorious. When she was with him, learning from him, she was happy. Under his guidance, she bloomed and her voice carried a passion that frightened her.

"Angel, please come to me," she said, rising and walking towards her mirror, seeing only herself on the other side. She placed her hand on the cool glass. It reminded her of him. His cold fingers, weaving through her frothy curls, sending shivers down her spine and making her forget the warmth of any other hands. "Please, mon ange, forgive me. Don't abandon me." She waited, her ears trained for any sign—a whisper, a sigh—anything from him. But there was only silence. The Christine in the mirror began to blur and the walls behind her wobbled and waved. She was crying. Instantly, her hand leapt to her eyes, whipping the tears away as she mentally cursed herself for being so feeble. He wasn't there, and he wasn't coming—but perhaps she could come to him. She glanced over the mirror, stepping around and gliding her fingers up the side, trying to find a latch or something that would give her a clue as to how to open it. She knew there had to be some sort of trick to it. He had made it look so effortless when he came for her that night. Surely she could figure it out.

"That's not how you open it, but keep going, this is quite amusing."

Christine jumped and turned to see her tutor, the Phantom of the Opera standing in a darkened corner that he most definitely had not been in when she first arrived.

"How did you—?"

The Phantom laughed softly and shook his head.

"Now, now, a magician never reveals his tricks. Otherwise, there's no magic." He gave her a half-smile that was obscured by the white mask that covered half his face. Christine was grateful that he decided to wear it. She'd seen the true face under that mask, and quite honestly, it was not a sight she wanted to see again. She waited for him to come out into the light, but he seemed very content to stay where he was.

"I thought you'd left already," she said, her eyes inevitable drawn to the stark white mask.

"If I were in your position, this is the part where I would beg for forgiveness for my unforgivable tardiness and properly explain myself. Now."

His voice left no room for doubt. He was furious, and at that moment, the Christine who had firmly put Raoul in his place for asking about her personal affairs was nowhere to be found. This was different. This was him and that changed things. Telling him to mind his own business was simply not an option.

"I was detained by a personal matter," she said, trying to keep everything as short and vague as possible.

"You will kindly elaborate."

She should have known better.

"I was visiting an old friend. We were talking and time simply got away from me."

"He must be a very special friend to make you forget your priorities," he sneered. Christine didn't bother asking how he knew that her friend happened to be male. Along with countless other unexplainable things about her masked teacher, she just accepted that he knew certain things and didn't question it.

"We were discussing the apparent confusion about my role in Il Muto."

"There is no confusion. You're playing the countess."

"As far as my knowledge, I'm still playing the part of the pageboy," Christine said carefully. The conversation was getting a bit surreal. Here she was in her dressing room, speaking to the infamous Opera Ghost, the very man who terrorized the authorities of the Opera House and whose name make the ballet rats shiver with fright. Here they were discussing a letter he'd written, which she certainly had never asked him to write, and it was as if all of this were some kind of play. It would be comedic if it weren't so violent, and the violence was real. Very, very real.

"That's very interesting to hear. It will be even more interesting if you're still playing the pageboy opening night," he said cryptically.

"What do you mean?" she asked, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"Well, it all comes down to what our dear mangers decide, but let's just say that I've made certain arrangements just in case they don't comply with what's in the best interests for the opera. Don't worry, my angel," he said gently, reading the worry in Christine's face. "Either way, you'll be safe from harm."

"I'm not worried about myself," she said suddenly, finding her voice again. The Phantom regarded her for a moment and slowly walked towards her, his eyes keeping her pinned and frozen where she stood. It had never been his intention to intimidate her as he did the others, but he couldn't deny that it got the same results his kindness did in much less time.

"You would do well," he said "to remember your place. Right now those lower vermin—those glassy-eyed followers who stretch out their hands and beg for your voice—they worship you. But it's a fickle obsession and the instant you fall from their gaze they'll forget about you. This is the most important part of your career and if you want to succeed—Christine—if you want to sing and be heard you will do exactly as I say." He had meant to say all of this harshly, but found that the longer his spoke, the softer his voice became. He reached for her, his hands drawn to her face, curling his fingers against her check, stroking her jaw, her lips. The world could fall of its axis, everything around him could burn and fall to ash, but he had this moment right now as his beautiful angel endured his touch and did not flinch away.

He was in awe of her beauty and it made him painfully aware of his own ugliness as she stared into his eyes. He'd spent hours forming this pleasing face before the mirror, applying stage makeup and false flesh to hide the deformity that peaked out from the sides of his mask like a grotesque seam. His nose, which in reality seemed to fall away and collapse midway over, now appeared full and normal. The eye of his mask cut sharply across his right eye and covered his entire cheek, or more precisely, his distinct lack of cheek. It was as if God had grown board with his face midway through construction and decided to just stretch skin over bone. And Christine had seen it all. His cunning little Pandora couldn't leave well enough alone and had snatched his mask away. Perhaps it was more ritual than requirement that he disguised himself so thoroughly for her, but she seemed content to fall back into her make-believe world that he couldn't help but indulge her.

"I just don't want anyone getting hurt," she whispered and why, why did her voice have to tremble so? Why did his touch feel so extraordinary? Why did she constantly yearn for something she feared?

"Pain and sacrifice are all part of this game, and it's a game you must play, my dearest, if you wish to gain the rewards that follow." His hand found its way into her curls and carefully pulled away the ribbons she'd used earlier, allowing her hair to flow freely over her shoulders, down her back. Christine's hand inadvertently went to his face, but recoiled automatically, shoving her away and drifting back into his darkened corner.

"I'm sorry," she said suddenly, her mind still reeling. "I wasn't going to—I mean I just wanted to—" Oh, God, she didn't know what she meant anymore. She drove her fingers into her hair and tried to slow her thoughts down. This was all too strange—too fast—and definitely too confusing for her.

"Of course you wouldn't," said the Phantom, not quite edging the bitterness from his voice. "'You have your way. I have my way. As for the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist.'"

"What's that supposed to mean?" she asked, clearly more confused now than before and a bit frustrated by his obscurity. She was only what other people made her, like a clay doll still moist and pliable for anyone to pick up and reshape. She was covered in fingerprints. What did she know of 'her way'? For once, she just wanted a straight answer.

"Do I frighten you, child?"

"I'm not sure what you mean," she said, feeling very confused and cornered.

"Just answer the question—do I frighten you?"

"Yes," she answered suddenly, barely aware that she had said anything at all. She jerked her hands and covered her mouth, but it was too late. Yes, she was frightened of him. She feared the way he found most people disposable and useless. She feared the way he lavished his affection on her and demanded her unconditional devotion in return. She feared the madness that occasionally obscured his eyes—the way he looked at her sometimes as though he could devour her raw like some sacrificial virgin. My power over you grows stronger yet. And yes she feared his face, but most of all, she feared that doll he kept that looked exactly like her. The one in the bride's dress. "I don't want to lose myself," she whispered, barely enough to hear herself, but she knew he had heard. Sometimes, she wondered if he could read her mind.

"Would you like to know how to open the mirror?" the Phantom asked suddenly. Christine wondered if he ever remained on a subject for more than an instant, but nevertheless, she nodded. "Then let's make an arrangement. I'll show you how to open the passageway but in return, I will never come here again. Do you understand, Christine? If you want to see me, you will have to come to me." Christine could only make out the white mask from the darkness of the corner where the light from the gas lamps just didn't quite reach. What he was offering her was freedom, complete independence. But within that, he was also forcing her hand. As much as she feared him, she needed him. Your spirit and my voice in one combined. My spirit and your voice in one combined. She was him—he was her, and maybe it was all just madness. Maybe she was still the fragile little girl always chasing after the dust of her father, always hearing angels singing inside her head, always looking for answers in the dark, seeing things that weren't really there.

"Show me."

It was too dark to see him smile, but she knew he was.

"Very well," he said, emerging once more and gesturing to the mirror with an outstretched hand. She turned and stood before it with him coming behind her. A thrill of anticipation shot through her when he took her hands and held them up to the frame. "The trick," he said, his breath warm and teasing against her ear. She shivered involuntarily and blushed while he continued. "is to push." And with that said, he pressed her hands against the frame and pushed against it until a faint but distinct click sounded. Christine's face broke into a wide grin as she stood back and watched the mirror swing forward revealing the dark hallway within. She grabbed the frame and pulled it all the way over, completely opening the secret passageway. A cold air swept into the room and the darkness seemed to pull her forward. She took a tentative step, wanting to explore, feeling as though this was her hallway now as much as his.

"And always remember that when you look into the abyss, the abyss looks right back into you."

She froze, uncertainty creeping back into her making her hesitate. A hundred new questions swirled in her head and the man holding most of the answers was standing right behind her toying with her head. Her Angel of Music, the Opera Ghost… the nameless man. That bothered her. Of everything she didn't know about him, the fact that she didn't even know his name seemed almost unforgivable. Deformed and twisted as he was, he was still a man after all, and all men had names. Perhaps if she knew his name, the Phantom would disappear and the man would be someone she could trust. How could something so basic and yet so important just slip her mind? Well she would find out right now.

"Angel," she said, turning. "What is your…"

But there was no one there. She whirled back around but the passageway was just as dark and just as empty as it was before. Grabbing the ornate silver frame of the mirror, she pushed it back into place until she heard the click and stood back. A frightened child stared back at her and she wondered, not for the first time, just how safe she really was.

Authors Notes:

This is going to be a mixture of the Andrew Lloyd Webber musical, with a bit of Gaston Leroux and my own personal interpretation of the characters and events. The book has the story set in 1870 and the musical is set about a decade after that. For those that know their history, there's a significant different in those two periods. For one there's the Paris Commune that lasted until mid 1871. Secondly, during the 1880s and so on, cabaret and vaudeville became popular in Montmartre. La Chat Noir opened in 1881 and the famous Moulin Rouge opened about eight years later. My story is set right at the cusp of this shift, a sort of middle ground between the two stories.

During his conversation with Christine, Erik quotes Friedrich Nietzsche, who was alive and writing during this time period. I personally find Nietzsche fascinating and I believe Erik would have liked a few of his ideas as well.

The lyrics at the beginning of the chapter are from the song Amore Amaro (Bitter Love) written by Yoko Kanno.

Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera, nor am I making any money from this publication.