Raoul de Chagny remembered every detail of his father's death. He had been sixteen at the time, a young man of good breeding and fine education. He'd been away at school, his days spent in rigorous studies, his evenings shared with the other young men within the dormitories and a headmaster who allowed no one to speak after dark.
He'd learned a great deal of patience in his youth, especially while away at school. Silence didn't bother him, nor did following stringent rules.
It had been past dark when the headmaster burst into the men's dormitory and stalked toward his bed. He stood there, gray hair slicked back, wrinkled face unsmiling.
"Come with me, de Chagny," he ordered.
Barefoot, he'd followed behind the headmaster to his study in the dormitory loft. He remembered how cold the room felt, the air stuffy and unmoving like a tomb.
Once they were both seated, the headmaster cradled his head in his hands and sighed. "You are to leave at once," he said.
Raoul stared back, unblinking, confused by the demand. "I have nowhere to go," he stammered. "I don't have my shoes."
"Your belongings will be packed for you," the headmaster assured him.
"Have I done something wrong?" he asked. Out of some three hundred young men, he'd been the only one without so much as a tardy to class. He couldn't imagine what he had done to deserve being tossed out of school in the middle of the night.
The headmaster stood and planted his hands on the desk, his visage pinched with a sneer. He loomed over Raoul, tall and gaunt, his features lengthened by the shadows.
"Your father is dead," he stated without a hint of emotion. "Your mother lacks access to his funds. When and if this issue is resolved, you may return."
Raoul sat back, his mouth agape. His exile from school was a matter of money. There were no condolences offered, no moment allowed to soak up the bitter information shoved at him.
"Dead?" he gasped. "How? When?"
The headmaster lifted his chin. "Stabbed to death. Three nights ago."
With that, he was allowed to retrieve his shoes while his belongings were tossed haphazardly into his trunk and loaded onto a carriage. He never returned to the school and for the life of him couldn't recall the headmaster's name.
He did, however, with boundless clarity, remember being ushered away in a time of weighted sorrow. The world loomed over him, his heart heavy, his body fighting off illness churning in his gut.
Six months had passed since he'd seen his father and as he neared the estate, he realized he'd never see him again. Once he arrived at his widowed mother's side, there was no opportunity to mourn. With his older brother away with the military, it was his duty as the man of the house to push aside his sorrow and see to his father's burial.
Duties were handed over without explanation. He was expected to stand in his father's shoes and make the decisions for the household—most of which he never knew existed. It felt like chasing a wild horse, running as fast as he could, but never fast enough to catch up.
Unbeknownst to anyone but his mother, the Comte de Chagny had left a hefty sum of money to support the arts, mainly out of his respect for an old and dear friend, the famous Gustav Daae.
They had spent several summers enjoying the seashore where Raoul had first met the violinist's daughter. He'd frightened her with tales of trolls, spoiled her with sweets, and kissed her in the attic. At the age of five, he proposed to her by candlelight, professing he would never love a girl as much as he loved her.
Little Lotte, thought of everything and nothing.
But the world worked with cruel irony. Gustav Daae died penniless after a long illness that kept him confined to bed for almost a year. His only child was sent off to the opera house at the age of seven. Years passed and he never forgot his proposal—though his older brother made certain of reminding him.
Eleven years later, in the home of a dead benefactor, Christine Daae was lost in mourning.
When he looked at her, he saw nothing but sadness and recalled his own heartache. At a time when he wanted nothing more than to weep for his loss, he was tending to his father's duties rather than his memory.
Christine was no different. He had asked her to marry him once and she had said yes. Now, despite the ring she wore around her neck, he wasn't sure she was ready to be a bride. Not now, perhaps not ever.
~o~
Everywhere Christine roamed, she felt the servants watching her as she explored the sprawling estate. Since Raoul had first whisked her away from the opera house to the chateau, his staff had scrutinized her every move.
A full staff at her disposal proved awkward instead of luxurious. No one had ever served her tea or presented supper to her, and when she blushed furiously, they looked at her oddly.
"What an odd woman the vicomte entertains," she heard them whisper down the hall.
"They said she was a dancer turned to a famous soprano."
"A dancer? That shy thing?"
"Who cares what she was? I hear her dance her way into the vicomte's bed nightly."
The maids gasped and shrieked with delight. "Nightly?"
"Yes, yes, she is a little tart, that one, so doe-eyed and innocent during the day, but my, what a vixen at night. Have you seen how tired she looks?"
They continued to whisper and gossip, but Christine couldn't bear to listen a moment longer. She walked into the estate solarium and breathed in the fragrant, humid air.
No one would have believed her, but she hadn't shared the vicomte's bed. She had barely slept in her own as the shadows called to her, beckoned her to the window where she stood for hours and waited, listening to the crickets, waiting for the familiar voice that had always lulled her to sleep.
Even though Raoul had offered to keep her company during the day, she shook her head and begged him to continue his business affairs while she walked the grounds in silence.
A soft tap on the solarium door garnered her attention and she jumped, whirling around. A young, mousy looking girl with a long nose and black hair stared back at her with a dull expression and pale, unexpressive eyes.
"The vicomte asked for you to join him, Mademoiselle. Lunch is served."
Christine's eyes widened. "He has returned?"
"He never left this morning," the servant replied.
She left the solarium and walked down the hall toward the dining room where Raoul sat at the head of the table.
"Are you hungry?" he asked as he stood and helped her into her seat, his fingers gently brushing her shoulders.
She'd lost her appetite, but she couldn't deny his company. At a time when she needed friendship and patience he'd given her both.
"I wasn't expecting you to stay home," she said as creamy soup and a basket of bread was set on the table by a silent maid dressed in black.
Raoul shrugged. "Business matters can wait."
She glanced at him, then reached for a piece of bread and broke off a chunk. The servants talked behind his back and thought of him as far too charitable. She couldn't imagine the rumors swirling around his estate if he'd cancelled business meetings on her behalf.
"I thought tomorrow we would go on an adventure," he said, waggling his eyebrows playfully.
She couldn't help but smile. "What sort of adventure?"
He dabbed the corners of his mouth with his napkin and cleared his throat. "A secret adventure."
"Honestly?" Her eyes widened. "Not even a hint?"
"No, not even a hint."
"But…why?" she asked.
He ate in silence for a moment before lifting his gaze and looking wistfully into her eyes. "It's been over a week since I've seen you smile, Christine, genuinely smile. If secret adventure awakens your heart, then so be it."
She sat back and stirred her soup. Any other woman would have easily fallen in love with him from the moment he smiled in her direction. Perhaps what she needed was a secret adventure to awaken her at last, give her a life outside of darkness.
