Chapter 2

Dream

Three months.

Ninety-two days.

The doctor assured Christine that the burn scars were healing magnificently. The daily visits for the first twenty-six days had turned into bi-weekly, then weekly, then perhaps once a month, if they were on the right track. The soprano hardly kept track.

"If you continue to apply the balms each day as I instructed, you should be needing more in about a month. I will have my assistant schedule an appointment for your follow-up, when we can get you some more." The doctor clasped his tool-bag and lifted it from the private dining table where the home calls always took place. No maids or servants were allowed in the dining room at any time other than if there was the slight chance that guests would occupy that room. Mainly because Christine had to unmask for her appointments.

"Raoul," Christine placed a hand on her fiance's knee, offering him the most convincing smile she could. "May I please have a moment alone with the doctor?"

Raoul glanced questioningly from her to the doctor, trying to read her intent. "Is everything alright?"

"Yes, quite," Christine assured him. "I just have a few questions."

The tone her voice had taken on was enough of a hint. Raoul offered a curt, polite nod before taking his leave, silently shutting the door behind him. At once she turned her attention to the doctor, a frown casting over her features. "Now the honest answers, please."

Christine did not take well to things being "sugar-coated". She would rather know straightforward how bad a situation would be, and her face was no exception. Even if it was a harder pill to swallow. Since their first visit, Christine had demanded honesty from the doctor, if only to put herself at ease. Raoul could live in ignorance as long as he liked, if it helped him. She could not. The doctor and patient came across a silent agreement that at the end of each check-up, he would tell her his honest, medical opinion.

The man sighed, pushing his glasses further up his nose. "The same as my last visit, Mademoiselle. I'm sorry, but there is no hope of a complete recovery. The scars are too deep."

After those words, Christine fell into a numb trance. Other words, like "continue treatment" and "lessen appearance" drifted by ears that refused to hone in. She must have dismissed him at some point, because when she came back down to earth the man was gone, the door left slightly open.

It was dark out by the time Raoul finally joined her in their shared quarters. She was curled up on the chaise with a book opened in her lap, mask secured once more to her face. Completely undisturbed until she saw the blur of a body in front of her. She looked up, greeted by warm, hazel eyes and golden wisps of hair. Another sympathetic smile. "Must you wear that always, love?"

Christine knew what would come next, prepared herself for it. Just as every night if he beat her to it, he reached around underneath her hair and freed the mask from her face. It clung to her skin from sweat and left over balm and she winced as the cold air hit the sensitive skin. Raoul looked down at the colombina-shaped mask with a certain distaste before setting it aside.

"I… talked with the doctor," Raoul started, setting the leather aside. "He believes that the mask might be stunting the recovery."

Christine could not help the pitiful glare that formed on her face, the light scowl that Raoul cringed at. "I spoke with the doctor, too."

"And?"

Christine hesitated before lifting her chin. "He says there is no possible chance for a full recovery."

The vicomte sighed and stood back up, crossing to the bed. "But there is a chance that the scars could fade, even slightly. But the mask, it's suffocating you. The scars can't breathe."

"What's the use?" Christine grumbled. "I went into the fire, I did this to myself. I will be stuck with the mask either way if I ever wish to leave the house again."

Raoul scoffed, crossed the room to his dresser. "Glad you're feeling optimistic today," he muttered. He then froze, halfway through untucking his cravat. He looked over his shoulder to glance to his bride, brows furrowed. "You never told me what you were doing there," he realized.

Christine guessed by his silence that he was expecting some type of answer.

"I left a picture of my father in my dressing room. When I saw the fires, I panicked."

A lie. She had taken the picture home the day before Don Juan, knowing she would quit the opera following the performance.

Still, her fiance was apparently thick enough to buy it. If he were to ever know the truth, he would never look at her the same again. She did not want to upset this delicate balance anymore than it already was.

Christine sat on their balcony, where she had a view of the now-empty lot where the Opera Populaire once stood. She could feel the memories seeping from the rubble, yet to be cleared. Could hear the myriad of infinite melodies that had drifted from the stage. Could see the glittering lights on her face and roses that wilted in forgotten dressing rooms.

She could feel the presence of something calling to her. Pulling at her mind, stringing her along to painful flashbacks. To glimpses of two bodies dangling from a lasso, to a satin white dress and an itchy veil.

To shadows along her dressing rooms walls, calling to her from the corners. To dark waters and twisting fog and distant candlelight. To a man who led her to his lair, where he held her and guided her and hypnotized her through an angelic voice.

To a man, who had completely destroyed her life.

She closed her eyes against the onslaught of pain, grief. She had failed her angel of music. In the end, he burned down with his opera house, dwindling away in the embers and ash. Even through all of the pain he had caused her, her heart broke for him. A man who had been met with nothing but misery and death everywhere he roamed, and she turned out to be just like the rest of them.

It was no wonder, really, that the Phantom turned out the way he did. Christine had been thinking on this since Don Juan. He was only shown hatred and animosity his entire life. How could he have any knowledge on how to treat people, when he had nothing but trauma and abuse to draw from?

How could he have known better?

Raoul believed that Christine grieved the face she once had, now lost to a maze of scars. But she couldn't be bothered by that anymore.

Christine grieved the loss of a man, of a friend she once thought she had. A friend who she parted from by breaking his heart. By leaving him to die.

An image, foggy and unclear, drifted behind her eyelids. Of the Phantom, unmasked and nodding her along, pleading with her through dark eyes. I'm alright, it seemed to say, even as a bloodthirsty mob closed in on him. Go on, I'll be alright.

"Oh, Maestro," she whispered to herself, a mere breath that skated from her lips. A single tear traced along the ribbed plane of her cheek.

"Christine…"

The soprano's head snapped up, eyes wide and flooding at the familiar sweet, soothing voice. The air rushed from her lungs, left her gaping.

It cannot be…

"Christine?"

She quickly looked over her shoulder, where Raoul stood by the open balcony door with an outstretched hand. A mirror image of when he led her out of the cellars of the Populaire.

Of course. You fool.

"Come to bed, my love."

She blinked away the moisture in her eyes, took her soon-to-be-husband's hand, and joined him.

"What's this?"

The Phantom glanced up from his papers, scrawled carelessly across his music stand. Christine toyed with the music-box monkey, smoothing down its velvet vest. She donned her white robe, frills tossed behind her as she stretched out on the gondola. Her hair fell down over her shoulders in a downy, dark cascade. The singer could feel her mentor's stare as he took in every detail of her.

"It's an old friend of mine."

Christine looked up with a puzzled smile. "Where is it from?" Her attention returned to the ornate monkey; she traced the carved hair atop its head with her nail.

"Persia," he answered. "A gift from a policeman."

"What is its purpose?"

The Phantom placed his quill back in the ink, drifted over to kneel beside Christine and his paper-mache friend. He wound the knob on the back of its box. The monkey began the slow, rhythmic clapping of its symbols, playing a simple and soft tune.

Christine giggled, watching contently. The composer couldn't take his eyes off of her, drank in the easy joy and peace she radiated. "Does he have a name?"

Christine had meant it as a joke, but he answered honestly, "it's not a name a lady should hear."

The young woman was now intrigued. "I promise I can handle it."

The man hesitated, before simply stating, "Jackass. That's his name."

Christine burst into a dainty fit of giggles, covering her mouth at the obscenity. She caught sight of his own small smile, a tiny hint from what she could see of his lips.

Their eyes met, and something warm and new and exciting began to bloom in the singer's chest. She grinned, tilting her head. "You're quite the mystery, maestro."

"Better kept that way."

Christine blinked awake, staring at the wall ahead of her. The room was still dark, bathed in that dark midnight glow. Raoul had an arm draped over her waist, his head nuzzled into the crook of her neck. His breathing was deep, steady.

The woman thought over the dream, a memory she had almost forgotten about. The two weeks she had spent with the Phantom after Hannibal had become a trance-like haze in her mind, only certain clips and stolen glances and snippets of conversation reserved. She had forgotten about the little music box. Jackass, as he had called it.

Her former angel had come to her in dreams a number of times since the fire. She supposed that he now was a literal angel of hers, only he more haunted than guided her. Unable to remember the few good memories they had shared, but could perfectly recall all the bad.

She eased herself out of her lover's arms, careful not to stir him. She padded over to her desk, lit a small candle, and took out her hidden journal. She found the next empty page and copied down the dream to her best ability.

If she could not have the good memories clear in her mind, at least she could keep the dreams.