Disclaimer: Sadly, I don't own any of the characters! Except for Milly.
Antoinette Giry is from The Phantom of Manhattan because I was too lazy to
think of a first name for Mme Giry. =P
I apologise if this chapter isn't as good... I finished in a hurry; I wanted to post it before I leave. I'll be in California for the next six days, but hopefully I'll get to do a lot of writing on the plane ride. Now, on to the story.
"Twenty-one inches," announced the wardrobe mistress Raoul had hired. Christine sighed. "Perhaps my corset can be laced a little tighter. No matter, have the designers a sketch of the gown?" Personally she had preferred Meg to be the costumer. They had loved to dress each other up and conduct pretend weddings. But Raoul had insisted on hiring a specialist. It's not like he couldn't afford it, he said. "Yes, mademoiselle. The page boy delivered them this morning." She unrolled a drawing of Christine's wedding gown, handing it to her mistress. Millicent Bloom's thin, English smile faded into a look of worry as Christine's lovely complexion turned paper white. "He's here. I can't escape. I never will." Her legs gave out under her, letting her body fall lifeless to the ground.
Months of hard work, all gone... at least his beloved music was still here. The fools only burned what they can see. That's the problem with the world. They only realised and cared about what their eyes told them. He caressed the hard, cold piano keys and began to play.
Past the point of no return
The games we've played till now are at an end
The music pained him. Christine...Christine... He let his head drop into his hands.
"Erik?"
Christine. His thoughts flew to that one word. No, the voice was harsher, older.
"Who is it?"
"Erik, come out this minute."
"NO ONE tells Erik what to do!"
"It's Antoinette.
"Oh." In a swirl of his cape, he was here.
"Mme Giry, where should I go? What would I do?" He sank to his knees, tears running down his face from the two holes that were fiery orange. "I lived only for her. I see no more reason..."
Her heart went out to him, once again her helpless boy of 10 years ago. "Don't talk like that. We'll build another house. If not, there's plenty of places you can go—London, New York...besides," the corners of her lips twitched. "Didn't she chose you and then you sent her away?"
"How did you—oh nevermind. Christine didn't love me. She wanted beauty instead of music." His face was wrenched in pain. "She would have resented me, and we would have never..." Erik trailed off with a heartbreaking sigh.
"I'll start rebuilding tomorrow."
Firmin banged his head on the mahogany desk in disgust. "Lunacy! All of this!"
They told the public of the accidental death of Signor Piangi. The police took it fine, the newspapers didn't. Too many accidents at the Opera House, it read.
"Surely this is all...a coincidence. There is on ghost. The house we burnt was abandoned." Replied Andre calmly.
"It's all just too strange to be true."
"An accident, simply an accident..."
"You!" The door to the managers' office burst open, revealing a very dishevelled prima donna.
"Signora, these things do happen."
Carlotta spat out some words in Italian that sounded suspiciously vulgar. "How dare you sit zere when my poor Piangi is dead?"
"Signora, I assure you that's no fault of us."
"I'm quitting."
Firmin stared, "that's impossible."
Andre said quite calmly. "You signed a contract."
"Damn the contract!"
Ignoring this outburst, the managers adopted a persuasive attitude. "Prima donna, you light up the stage. The wages of everyone here depend on you now. Can you deny your fans your voice? Do you not wish to sing?"
"Si," she whispered.
"Then sing you will."
"Ma'am?" Christine's eyelids fluttered at the voice of a confused wardrobe mistress.
"I'm alright."
"Nonsense. You're as white as a sheet. Drink this, child. It'll help." Christine, touched by this motherly gesture, sipped from the glass raised to her lips. "Thank you, Milly."
Of course everything was not alright. The gown... the white wedding dress that had added to her fear and made her faint, it had come back to haunt her. Worse, the wax image stirred a strange sensation deep inside, a feeling of longing, of eagerness to be Erik's wife as she moved closer to the mirror. And then, she had fainted just like she did now, and woke up to the music box, a gentle ringing and his sweet voice. What she wouldn't give to hear that voice again!
"You will tell them to modify the design at once. Make it look less like... that." She assumed a not of authority in her voice. After all, she was a future Vicomtess.
"Yes, ma'am."
I apologise if this chapter isn't as good... I finished in a hurry; I wanted to post it before I leave. I'll be in California for the next six days, but hopefully I'll get to do a lot of writing on the plane ride. Now, on to the story.
"Twenty-one inches," announced the wardrobe mistress Raoul had hired. Christine sighed. "Perhaps my corset can be laced a little tighter. No matter, have the designers a sketch of the gown?" Personally she had preferred Meg to be the costumer. They had loved to dress each other up and conduct pretend weddings. But Raoul had insisted on hiring a specialist. It's not like he couldn't afford it, he said. "Yes, mademoiselle. The page boy delivered them this morning." She unrolled a drawing of Christine's wedding gown, handing it to her mistress. Millicent Bloom's thin, English smile faded into a look of worry as Christine's lovely complexion turned paper white. "He's here. I can't escape. I never will." Her legs gave out under her, letting her body fall lifeless to the ground.
Months of hard work, all gone... at least his beloved music was still here. The fools only burned what they can see. That's the problem with the world. They only realised and cared about what their eyes told them. He caressed the hard, cold piano keys and began to play.
Past the point of no return
The games we've played till now are at an end
The music pained him. Christine...Christine... He let his head drop into his hands.
"Erik?"
Christine. His thoughts flew to that one word. No, the voice was harsher, older.
"Who is it?"
"Erik, come out this minute."
"NO ONE tells Erik what to do!"
"It's Antoinette.
"Oh." In a swirl of his cape, he was here.
"Mme Giry, where should I go? What would I do?" He sank to his knees, tears running down his face from the two holes that were fiery orange. "I lived only for her. I see no more reason..."
Her heart went out to him, once again her helpless boy of 10 years ago. "Don't talk like that. We'll build another house. If not, there's plenty of places you can go—London, New York...besides," the corners of her lips twitched. "Didn't she chose you and then you sent her away?"
"How did you—oh nevermind. Christine didn't love me. She wanted beauty instead of music." His face was wrenched in pain. "She would have resented me, and we would have never..." Erik trailed off with a heartbreaking sigh.
"I'll start rebuilding tomorrow."
Firmin banged his head on the mahogany desk in disgust. "Lunacy! All of this!"
They told the public of the accidental death of Signor Piangi. The police took it fine, the newspapers didn't. Too many accidents at the Opera House, it read.
"Surely this is all...a coincidence. There is on ghost. The house we burnt was abandoned." Replied Andre calmly.
"It's all just too strange to be true."
"An accident, simply an accident..."
"You!" The door to the managers' office burst open, revealing a very dishevelled prima donna.
"Signora, these things do happen."
Carlotta spat out some words in Italian that sounded suspiciously vulgar. "How dare you sit zere when my poor Piangi is dead?"
"Signora, I assure you that's no fault of us."
"I'm quitting."
Firmin stared, "that's impossible."
Andre said quite calmly. "You signed a contract."
"Damn the contract!"
Ignoring this outburst, the managers adopted a persuasive attitude. "Prima donna, you light up the stage. The wages of everyone here depend on you now. Can you deny your fans your voice? Do you not wish to sing?"
"Si," she whispered.
"Then sing you will."
"Ma'am?" Christine's eyelids fluttered at the voice of a confused wardrobe mistress.
"I'm alright."
"Nonsense. You're as white as a sheet. Drink this, child. It'll help." Christine, touched by this motherly gesture, sipped from the glass raised to her lips. "Thank you, Milly."
Of course everything was not alright. The gown... the white wedding dress that had added to her fear and made her faint, it had come back to haunt her. Worse, the wax image stirred a strange sensation deep inside, a feeling of longing, of eagerness to be Erik's wife as she moved closer to the mirror. And then, she had fainted just like she did now, and woke up to the music box, a gentle ringing and his sweet voice. What she wouldn't give to hear that voice again!
"You will tell them to modify the design at once. Make it look less like... that." She assumed a not of authority in her voice. After all, she was a future Vicomtess.
"Yes, ma'am."
