Chapter 2
February
Stockholm
It was a relief to be alone. Pulling the fur lined coat around her, Christine paused on the steps of the Royal Opera House, deeply inhaling the icy air. Leaving the long hours of rehearsals and demands behind her, she walked into the park that ran along side it. The space was mostly abandoned that cold afternoon. Most people were likely huddling around the fire indoors, giving the city an almost desolate feel. But, she preferred it that way. After days spent within the opera house or her hotel suite, she was dying to get out and explore Stockholm. As she took one street, and then another, she thought of her father and everything he told her about it. The grand and stately city was where he began his life as a musician. And it was everything he promised her it would be. Why had it taken so long for her to come? Hearing the distant echo of church bells tolling the hour, she realized that she had wandered a little too far. She would be late returning for the rest of rehearsal. Usually, she didn't shy away from the label of diva, but she prided herself on being a diva who was never late. Turning on her red heels, she traced her way back to the park, cutting through the heart of it to save time. As she crossed through, something caught her eye.
It was the way he walked with elegant and purposeful strides. The same thick head of dark hair, straight nose and generous mouth. She found herself holding her breath as he walked past her.
Erik...
For a moment she thought she was hallucinating. This was the face that she dreamed was underneath the mask. The face that she had expected to reveal when she pulled his mask from his face that morning. Unmarked and cream perfection. How could this be real? How could he be real?
I must be losing my mind...
She shut her eyes for a moment, certain that he wouldn't be there when she opened them again. But when she did, she saw the strong broad plane of his back as he continued on in the opposite direction. Hooked in, she began following him at a distance. Turning corners and crossing more streets, she continued trailing behind him until he veered off to the blue door of a grey stone building. She watched as he pulled a key from the pocket of his heavy grey coat, and let himself in. Minutes passed by as she watched the windows on the second floor go from dark to light. She remained there until reality pushed it's way back in. As she turned to leave, she made a private vow to herself that she would be back.
New Orleans
"Stop! Everyone, stop for a moment! I have some news!"
An audible groan rippled through the corps as Labreau strode on stage, holding a letter high like a flag. Madame Giry rolled her eyes and with a jerk of her head, sent the corps to the barre.
"This better be important," she snapped.
He grinned down at his wife. "Oh, but it is mon amour. Meg, this is for you."
Meg left the barre, brow cocked in curiosity. "What is it?"
He cleared his throat in theatrical fashion, as he began to read.
Madame De Laval,
After seeing your performance of Giselle for President Harrison last year, I became an immediate admirer. As Ambassador to Sweden, I have become well acquainted with their royal highnesses, Crown Prince Gustaf and his lovely wife Crown Princess Viktoria. Both are great patrons of the arts, and were impressed by what I and others shared of your superior talent. Every year, their Royal Highnesses host a gala to celebrate the arts. Only a small number of artists from around the world are invited to perform. It is my great pleasure to extend an invitation from their Royal Highnesses to perform for them at this annual gala, which is to be held on the evening of March 15. It would be my great honor to host you and your charming mother, should you decide to accept this prestigious invitation. I hope that you will.
Best Regards,
Richard Randolph Hamilton, United States Ambassador To Sweden
Madame Giry's initial displeasure melted away, as she grasped Meg's hand. "You have to accept."
Meg sank onto a nearby chair. "I never expected this."
"I told you there would be more invitations after performing for Harrison," Labreau laughed, giving her shoulder a fatherly squeeze. "I will go to my office and write that you accept the invitation!"
"Wait," Meg said. "I didn't say that I accepted."
Both Labreau and her mother stared down at her, lips pinched and eyes narrowed. "Why not?"
"Labreau, would you give Mama and I a moment?"
Tossing a confused look at her, he left shaking his head. Madame Giry stared down at her with a determination that Meg knew all too well.
"Meg, I'm going to be as honest with you as I have ever been. You are well past 30. In fact, you are at the sunset of your career."
"Yes, I'm old in the eyes of some," Meg shot back. "I understand that. But_."
"Invitations to dance for royalty are something only reserved for the best in our world. You are an aging dancer who isn't the prima ballerina of a renound corps."
"Mama listen_."
"This invitation is an unexpected privilege."
"Mama I_."
"There is no reason on earth why you should turn it down!"
"Mama!"
Madame stopped, and gave an impatient sigh. "What?"
Starring up at her mother, she felt like she was 5 years old again and begging to be held. Taking a deep breath, she whispered, "Erik and I are trying to have another baby."
Madame Giry raised her brows. "Is that your compelling reason for wanting to turn down this invitation? You're too busy rolling around in bed with him to dance for royalty?"
Meg rolled her eyes and stood up. "I suppose I shouldn't have expected you to be happy about this." She headed off stage with Madame Giry on her heels.
"It's not that I wouldn't welcome another grandchild! It's that I don't want you to turn down this opportunity."
"Why is it that you treat my marriage as less important than everything else?"
"I have nothing against it!"
"Liar," Meg shot back as they progressed through backstage. "Any time you and Labreau come to me with some grand invitation and I object, you have some snide comment to make about Erik. Or about how I have given up so much to be here with him!"
"You have given up too much," Madame Giry cried.
"I don't feel that way!"
"You are one of the hardest working and most talented dancers I have ever known! And I'm not saying that because I'm your mother. You know I don't flatter anyone. But, it's true. You could have left here long ago and danced in any Corps anywhere."
"I'm happy here," Meg argued. "Why can't you just accept that?"
"You could have been a prima ballerina. I know it and Erik knows it too!"
"I've had enough of this discussion. I'm not going to Stockholm! That's my final decision!" Meg turned her back and hurried into her dressing room, slamming the door behind her.
"I suppose I should throw the letter I just wrote away."
Madame Giry turned to find Labreau and several curious pairs of eyes behind her. Sucking in her breath, she tried to recover her dignity. "Hold onto it."
"Where are you going" Labreau asked as she walked by him.
"I think I'm going to take a short trip to Maison Azelée. I'll be home later."
Stockholm
Christine quickly shut the dressing room door on the back of her last well wisher. Her dresser hurried over, chatting with her in broken French as she helped her out of costume. Off with the red silk gown of Bellini's Norma, and into her white lace robe. As she wiped the red lip rouge away, her dresser went on about the evening's performance. It was, by all accounts, one of her best. It ended as most had with a dressing room filled with roses and an hour's worth of forced glad handing with psychofants and puffed up aristocrats. As much as she loved performing, she would never love that. Now, all she wanted was to go back to her hotel suite and sleep well into the next day. A soft knock came. Her dresser turned to her, pale brows lifted in silent question.
"It's probably Oscar. Let him in." As she wiped the rest of the heavy stage makeup away, she expected to see the white mustached face of the her father's old friend, and director of the opéra Oscar Von Rosen. He was the reason why she finally decided to come to Stockholm. Since her arrival, he and his wife Klara had become like family. Without looking up, she greeted him. "I hope you weren't too disappointed in me. I only hit that high C for a laugh."
"Not at all disappointed."
The voice wasn't Oscar's. When she looked up, it was the face of her stranger in the reflection of the mirror. Her mouth fell open as she turned to face him. In return he gave her an awkward but polite smile.
"I apologize for disturbing you. I was looking for Oscar as well, and thought it would be a chance to congratulate you on the performance." He bowed from the waist, and began backing away. "Please excuse me."
"Wait," Christine said, hurrying up from her chair. "Your name?"
He stopped, inclining his head. "Max Von Fersen."
She extended her hand. "Christine Daée."
Smiling, he kissed it. "I know, and so does everyone else."
Looking up at him brought her back several years to the moment she first saw Erik standing in the mirror. All the need and longing cutting through her again so keenly, she could barely take it. For a moment she felt stuck between the memory and the man standing in front of her. Wanting to touch him and wanting him to touch her. She quickly turned away and gestured to the chaise behind her. "Please, stay and wait for Oscar. He should be here soon. Every night he insists on accompanying me back to my hotel. He's a bit overprotective."
"It sounds like Oscar," he laughed, taking a seat.
She returned to her vanity, and finished wiping away what was left of her makeup with a nervous hand. It was hard to believe that he was really there. For days she had taken what little time she had and returned to that house, walking up and down that street hoping for a glimpse of him. Now, it seemed like life had decided to have pity and drop him into her lap. Their eyes met again in her mirror as she nervously tried to make polite talk.
"Do you come to the opéra often?"
"Every season since I was 12," he replied. "My father loved the opéra and was determined to make me love it too."
"With my father it was the same," she said, mindlessly rearranging things around on her vanity. "He was a musician from a small village north of here."
"Oscar told me that he knew him well."
The door opened on cue as Oscar strode in, hat in hand. He smiled in surprise at the sight of Max. "So you were able to come!"
They shook hands. "I was determined to be here."
"This is a nice occasion," Oscar said. "The children of two of my greatest friends meeting. We should have a late supper together."
"I can't," Max said. "I have more work to do in the morning, and I'm giving a lecture at the university."
"Christine, I'm sure he didn't tell you that he is the most sought after sculptor in Sweden and the continent."
"Impressive," Christine said, smiling. "I would love to see your work."
"You will find it all over the city," Oscar said. "The King and the crown prince are his greatest patrons."
Max dropped his eyes, smile strained. "There are better artists."
"Be as proud of your work as your father was." Oscar made it sound more like an order than a request.
"I really would love to see your work," Christine pressed. "Perhaps I could pay a visit to your studio?"
"You are always welcome," Max said. His eyes lingered on her face until Oscar broke in.
"It's getting late. I'm sure Christine is ready to change and return to her hotel."
"Of course," Max said, his smile apologetic as their eyes connected once more. How long will you be with us in Stockholm?"
"I have no plans to leave just yet. Perhaps Oscar can find something else to keep me here." They shared a laugh.
"Did you hear that Oscar," Max said. "Mademoiselle Daée and all of Stockholm are relying on you to keep her here."
"And I will," Oscar assured them.
Max turned back to Christine. "Good. It's been a pleasure meeting you. I hope we will meet again soon."
A smile rolled across Christine's lips. "We will Monsieur. Very soon."