I will keep you from the world outside
I will never let you go
I will be the thing you dream about
Come to me and you will know...

~ Jasmine Thompson, "Adore"

Chapter One: Haunted Girl


"Such a pity really," drawled a sugared voice.

"Indeed poor thing!" gasped a second, artificial concern lacing every syllable.

"Upon my word, she looks just like a ghost; so thin, and those eyes! They're enough to chill your blood!" added a third disapprovingly, disdain heavy like the lingering clouds of perfume that saturated the stuffy air of the lavish parlor.

The first voice made sounds that might have been sympathetic—if not for the soft hiss and rattle of thinly veiled scorn—a snake coiled and deadly.

"I completely agree, my dear. Is it any wonder the Viscomte keeps her hidden away? Oh, when I think of what his dear Mama—God rest her soul, we were great acquaintances, you know—would have thought of her only son and heir pledging himself and his fortune to a chorus girl!"

With a fluttering of lace fans, the three ladies continued to murmur contemptuously and cluck their tongues in hushed whispers. Not far from where they perched upon lavishly brocaded chairs Christine continued to stare out the handsome, elegantly arched windows heedless of the rain that obscured the de Changy grounds from sight, her own pale reflection all she saw.

Dark eyes gazed numbly back at her from the blackened glass, her white skin crowned with elegant curls dressed atop her head though a few still managed to escape to coil around her thin neck. The image was slightly blurred, and not for the first time she wished she could truly disappear behind the glass and enter another world. A world of ghosts; of shreds of memory, bright and consuming. It was the only existence that made any sense to her anymore. A mere reflection, a distorted dream, where there was nothing but shadows, half-whispered promises and music.

It was always there. Her head ached with the strains of a violin, a constant companion only she could perceive within her dulled mind. Tenderly comforting her. At times accusing her. Begging her, pleading. Drawing her to the edge of sanity, and filling her with the echoes of blinding longing.

She closed her eyes for a moment—just a moment—and welcomed the darkness that blocked out the fine sitting room, with its opulent furnishings and even more opulent guests. She imagined a great velvet curtain had been drawn across the whole false scene, muting the mingled sounds of conversation and laughter, the delicate notes of china coffee cups on plates and the rustle of long, fine silken gowns. Inky blackness greeted her like an old friend and she gratefully sought its comforting embrace.

As a child, the dark had terrified her.

Make darkness your light. It can be a blank canvas, filled with whatever you desire.

Words she remembered murmured against her ear—and suddenly comfort was replaced with pain along with the memory of black smoke, her own choked voice crying out the same name over and over, seared by the flames. She could still feel their heat sinking beneath her skin, burning away her heart. Opening her eyes once more she was greeted by the muted, candle-lit glow of reality. Murmuring voices, polite laughter and the scent of tobacco. People conversing about the weather, sports, gambling and of course the latest gossip. Rich, expensive perfumes cloying the air. Lace and finery. Glittering jewels and finely crafted brocades and silks. Another scene upon another stage, a perfect picture of refinement. Once, she might have found such things beautiful. Now, they were merely another reminder of how she had exchanged one deception for another. She tried to block out the voices, the laughter and civilized merriment, yet this duplicitous reality was hers and it refused to let her slip away into the realm of shattered hopes and dreams that all crystallized tantalizingly in the window's black glass.

"I hear she wasn't just a mere chorus girl," said the second voice said in a loud, conspiratorial whisper.

"Are you referring to the sensation that was all the papers could speak of last season?" asked the third voice, eagerly. "About an Opera diva—the one with the voice of an angel they claimed—who left in disgrace at the height of her fame?"

"I do, indeed!"

"No! You don't mean to say...that little wisp of a thing? Seems hardly plausible, just look at her; one exuberant note might shatter her to pieces! You cannot mean she is the Opera singer who—goodness!—surely it cannot be the same girl!"

Christine could not help but hear the incredulity, clear and stinging in their words. An emotion—pride, then surprise that she had any pride left—flickered, stirring in a corner of her numbed mind.

"Yes!" interjected the first voice, authority etched in her tone. "She is the very same; Christine Daaè—foreign, of course—the rising star of the Opera Populaire, until tragic and scandalous circumstances forced her early retirement from the stage."

"And allowed her to ensnare a rich husband."

More tittering laughter followed this last comment, and Christine felt her indignation wither, and her heart ache with hurt. Was this the way her new life was to be? Constantly scrutinized and judged? Mocked and jeered at? Never accepted as a wife, but a mere mistress with airs above her means? She felt a lump form tightly in her throat, but no tears came. Somehow, as unappealing and unjust as such a fate would be, she could not muster up enough energy to feel sorry for herself. How could she, when this life had been her choice?

"But you simply must elaborate!" cried the second voice a little more loudly now, clearly riveted. "What circumstances could possibly be more scandalous than a stage performer being courted by a Vicomte?"

There was a pause; then Christine heard the first voice, the eldest by its pitch, make a tut-tutting sound. "Well...as you know, I am not one who indulges in gossip of the basest kind...however, I did hear from a reliable source who was there when it all transpired. She swears the fire that nearly destroyed the Opera House was no accident! That it was, in fact, started by none other than a murdering madman—the infamous Opera Ghost!"

Christine's heart seemed to stop its aching beat—an image of the murdering madman sweeping aside all else, stitching itself together within the forefront of her mind, pulling taut the threads of her waking dreams where she always saw him in the corner of her eye.

Now he burned within the flames she could never seem to escape, bright and devastating, imploring her.

Christine.

It was useless to resist; despite weeks of trying to let her mind rest. How foolish. She should know by now, after weeks of sleepless nights, that restraining his image was akin to holding back her own breath.

"You cannot be serious?" breathed the second, younger voice, clearly appalled. "So it is true, then? That beast who kidnapped her off the stage? How awful!"

His eyes had been such a startlingly clear blue—like the little rivers of home.

"The police never did find him, did they?"

Christine still felt his touch. His long fingers always stained with ink curling into her hair, around her waist, her throat. Dragging her back against his chest, threatening to pull her within his very being. Forever night, forever darkness, devoured by his passion, his devotion, his voice.

That is the beauty of darkness; it can shroud you. Protect you. Give you everything you need. His gaze, always so consuming had been fixated on her own dark curls, long fingers tracing them with an almost reverent devotion. He was her contradiction; dutifully tempering his impulses, only to sweep her away with the sheer hunger of his every glance, every tentative touch. His lips had brushed against her pounding temple as he sang to her, an imprint forever branded on her skin. His song still echoing in her blood.

Say you love me.

"Why no, of course not my dear! It is believed the fiend died in the inferno," the first voice said dismissively. "Yet that is not the worst bit! My source informs me, and on no uncertain terms...that he was her lover!"

His mouth had trembled when she'd pressed her lips against it. She had tasted his tears.

"Oh, how horrifying!"

"Stay with me. I know I am a monster, an unworthy beast...but for you...I will..."

His fingers had shook when he raised them to touch her cheek with awkward gentleness, a shadow of a near smile on his malformed lips. It was an expression of worship and adoration—then suddenly, his features darkened. She felt helpless as she watched the shadow, the madness engulf him.

"I will defy God...I will defy anyone who dares say this is a sin...that this is not love!"

"Horrifying and debauched, to be true! My source tells me that the entire audience was shocked into a mortified silence—for just as he was about to whisk her off the stage, the girl unmasked him, revealing him to be the very devil himself! And then, she caressed the monstrosity openly, wantonly! It was utterly shameful!"

"What kind of woman could debase herself so?" asked the second voice, not bothering to hide her obvious repulsion, "to even speak to a man like that, let alone touch him?"

Christine rose more abruptly than she had intended, but it couldn't be helped. Tears, mingled with devastating, consuming anger made all sense of polite decorum meaningless. Slipping quickly through a throng of oblivious laughing guests, she did not look back. She did not see the look of superior disgust on the faces of the three ladies who had purposefully chosen to sit near her, hoping their conversation would be overheard. The eldest smiled disdainfully, her eyes never leaving the distraught girl as she rose and left the room hurriedly.

Turning to her two companions, she shook her head disparagingly.

"What kind of woman indeed, my dear. What kind of woman indeed."


"Christine?"

She was floating; the sun beat down on her face, and she thought how lovely it would be to never be cold again. Perhaps one day they would come here together; and they would be happy. Yet... she remembered, he had always avoided the light of day.

You are trembling. Are you cold down here? Come to me. I will make you warm again.

As darkness threaded its way through her dream, she felt herself shiver. Then warm hands pulled her close and warm lips were pressing against her ear, along with the cool whisper of porcelain.

My love...

"Christine?"

A gentle yet insistent knocking on her door roused her with a start, and through her disorientation she momentarily didn't recognize where she was. There was no cave, no sound of water lapping at a distant shore...no darkness.

It was bright, and blindingly so. Daylight flooded in through the open window, its curtains drawn back fully. She lay on a comfortable bed, and taking rapid, quick breaths she realized she was not beneath the Opera house. She was in a fine estate in the country, far removed from the glowing lights of Paris. She brought a trembling hand to her head.

The sleeping draught she had taken must have worked, if only for a few hours. After returning from the dinner party alone the night before she had been desperate to escape, to numb the rage that roiled in her veins. For weeks she had been an empty shell, with only the faintest flickers of emotion to keep her tethered to the earth. And music. It was there, ebbing and flowing in the very darkest recesses of her mind, constantly there. Sometimes it soothed; other times it seemed determined to torment her. Remind her of what—of who she needed.

Who she would always need, no matter how impossible it may be.

An image forced its way to the forefront of her consciousness, of her fingers so gentle and rapt tracing their way across his cheek. It had felt smooth, then rough where he had not yet shaven. Real. Tangible, at last. He had leant into her touch as greedily as a vine instinctively seeks the sun. Now only a memory.

How she wished she could simply disappear within it.

"Yes," she called out to the shut door, knowing who must be on the other side. She took a deep breath. "Yes, Raoul, come in."

Immediately, the door swung open and Raoul entered, his face the picture of worry and concern. "Are you alright? You left so abruptly last night! I asked one of the maids to check in on you, but I wanted to be certain..." there was guilt in his voice, and she knew it was because he felt as though he had abandoned her amongst people she was not yet used to.

"Forgive me. I should never have left your side. I was trapped into a conversation about shooting with the Comte de Beauford—well, his brother is a highly respected magistrate—and I couldn't slip away. You know how it is."

Christine nodded mutely, and tried to summon up an understanding smile.

"I am glad to see you were sleeping, Lotte," Raoul continued more softly, entering the room and placing a single red rose on her bedside table. Christine smiled at his thoughtfulness, but didn't dare touch the bloom. Its presence brought back a vivid image of long, calloused fingers stroking red petals, of that same hand bringing a blood red bud to his masked face, drawing in its scent and cradling it with such tenderness, so carefully.

Poor little Lotte dreamed of everything and of nothing...

Christine rubbed her fingertips against her forehead, which was throbbing with an ache mingled with the strains of a dark, smoke and velvet voice she could never seem to escape.

What do you dream, Christine?

Raoul was gazing at her seriously, then sat down carefully on the edge of her bed as though afraid to startle a grazing doe. Gently, he reached for her hand and took it in his, giving her an encouraging smile. Grateful for the affectionate contact, Christine squeezed his fingers back appreciatively, and the images of a man cradling a rose to his lips and gently calling her name faded momentarily and became like mist—still present, but not as tangible.

"If you like, I can move you to a room in the south wing." Raoul said gently, and Christine tried to focus on him alone, but it was difficult to concentrate when her memories refused to remain within her own mind for long, and instead played out before her eyes. Shadows on the wall cast by a warm morning sun became a solid, recognizable shape; his hands folded behind his back, his jaw set with determination and what she know realized had been an attempt to control his worry and apprehension.

"Does your room please you?"

She had tried to formulate a reply but faltered, overwhelmed by the thoughtfulness of its design.

Unable to utter a word, she had gazed in wonder at the room before her. It was simple, and elegant. Everything was made of a beautiful, deep cherry red wood that looked as though he had carved himself. A rocking chair, an armoire engraved with trees and animals; thick, warm blankets on the bed, with over-stuffed pillows; a single red rose placed with care along their softness.

Then her gaze fell on the pots of bright flowers that graced every available surface, and the sight of them brought tears to her eyes and a tightness to her throat. They were all wildflowers from her homeland, in Sweden.

"I planted only those specimens I thought you might have encountered." He said, watching her closely. "I...was limited due to the lack of sunlight. Yet these will continue to grow, and do quite well in the shade..."

"You needn't stay here, so near the servant's quarters." Raoul was saying, and it was the unconscious and dismissive way he had said servants quarters that drew her back to the present, and away from a hidden world underground.

"Thank you," she replied gently yet firmly, "But I...I like it here, very much."

Raoul glanced doubtfully about the small, modest bedroom. Its furnishings were made of a roughly carved wood, and it housed no crystal chandeliers or polished brass. His gaze was confounded, but he nodded all the same, humoring her.

"As you wish. Just know that in three weeks' time, you shall be the Comtesse de Changy," he raised her hand to his lips, and kissed it. "My wife in name and title… and all the luxuries that come with it."

She knew he only meant to bolster her spirits, but his words only nurtured a growing sense of panic that made her head ache even more acutely. Luxuries, trinkets, titles, parties filled with people she did not care to know.

People who would present nothing but saccharine smiles, while discreetly sharpening daggers to sling into her back. Anger at what she had overheard the night before rose up in a scorching wave once more and she was both shocked, and more disturbingly, grimly gratified to realize that she had wanted to lash out at those women; to protect him.

But he was gone. Ashes, ashes.

How long could she protect a ghost? The answer rose up within her heart without a moment's hesitation: Forever.

Your chains are mine.

Her gaze met Raoul's, and he smiled warmly at her. Hollowness seemed to creep back inside her chest.

"Now, little Lotte," he encouraged, "you shall take breakfast with me. Dr. Khan will be here in an hour, and when he departs I must tend to some business matters in Paris. So, we have little time to enjoy each others company today, I'm afraid."

He patted her leg affectionately, and in that one innocent gesture, Christine made up her mind. "I will join you in the dining room shortly, then." She said, careful to keep the resignation from her tone and expression. Raoul saw nothing. Smiling at her, he left the room whistling to himself, shutting the door quietly as he went. The sound of the door clicking shut was like the first beat of a metronome, echoing in her head and repeating the same words over and over.

What I love best Lotte said, is when I'm asleep in my bed, and the angel of music sings songs in my head...

Tears gathered in her eyes, but she pushed them away. Pushing herself off the bed, she swayed unsteadily for a moment. The sleeping draught Dr. Khan had prescribed did little to help her sleep, but always left her feeling woozy in the morning. Gripping the bedpost to steady herself, she caught a glimpse of something reflected in the mirror that hung above her armoire. Gasping, she lurched forward instinctually, one hand outstretched, her knees nearly buckling.

A tall, achingly familiar silhouette lingered just behind her—she turned, but there was no one there. Looking back to the mirror she saw only her own pale reflection, her eyes wide and shadowed with dark circles, gazing back at her. No tears came this time. Perhaps she was becoming parched and brittle. She dressed with shaking hands, careful to not look at her reflection again. Once dressed she slipped out of her room, down the winding staircase and out of the house, a hypnotic voice both lethal and irresistible promising both peace and ruin within the deepest corners of her soul, where desire still reigned.

He'll always be there singing songs in my head.