Christine's gaze had lifted as well to find Buquet slinking about, her mind taken back quickly to the events of the night before. '... just waiting to gobble you up.' She almost smiled at the thought of his fantastic stories. She remembered another time, whilst her time in the Opera was still at its fresh immaturity, when Buquet had found his way into the dancer's lounge to tell the first story Christine had ever heard of the ghost. '
He only has three or four long, dark locks of hair that hang over his forehead and behind his ears', Joseph had said, his eyes wide and that toothy grin accentuated by the candle he held beneath his chin as if to create some dramatic effect. He spoke of the ghost's ugly yellow skin, its lack of a nose, the horrible face of death that he had claimed to encounter. Christine wasn't so sure of this description now after her time spent with the heavenly Voice, and her imagination ran rampant with the origin and the beauty of her Angel. She had to ask herself, though. Was this Phantom often whispered about one and the same as her Angel? Perhaps he was heard whispering among the halls and the girls, or even Buquet, made up a horrible story.
Meg was tugging her to the side then, her pink mouth pulled tight into a Cheshire smile as she questioned excitedly, "Christine, your voice! You've been hiding your light under a bushel!" The young woman smiled demurely. Her voice was heard beyond Carlotta's picky ears. Beneath his hand and guidance, her voice would become alluring. Her dancing though… that was something Madame Giry would have a better time with. It wasn't that he couldn't teach her. No, he just found no interest in telling people how to prance around in tights, acting like a water sprite. As amusing as it might look sometimes, it just wasn't his taste.
Looking as if he was about to have a heart attack, the current manager made his way from his office into the main section of the theater, carrying with him the letter that had been left behind for the Madame. Dabbing lightly at his brow, he tucked the kerchief into the pocket of his slacks and quietly approached the cane wielding woman. "Madame Giry. Another note," he spoke quietly, so as not to draw the attention of the over curious ballerinas.
The appearance of the manager caused the resident specter to glance away from the duo of young women and look over toward the other two much older individuals. Stamped with the usual red hardened wax in the impression of a skull, Madame's name was written in a flowing script, using the same dark red ink that he normally did. The note had a simple message;
Ensure Miss Daae remains after hours when the others have left.
Sincerely,
O.G.
Giry turned, accepting the letter, and from the expression on Lefevre's face, knew instantly of its author. Thanking him quietly, she turned again to prompt the girls in a rather complicated sequence of spins and leaps, taking the opportunity to read over the reddened scrawl. Her gaze lifted after she folded the parchment neatly, eyes rising easily to Christine.
Madame Giry's eyes betrayed her. The child was regarded with a knowing, foreboding look as she watched her daughter and the chorus girl interact before returning to her usual demeanor; an icy cold instructor who tapped her cane in time as she barked out to the twirling girls, "Alright, that's quite enough. Now to Monsieur Reyer." The girls curtsied quickly, migrating together towards the other side of the stage as Christine and Meg ventured with their assigned group to Giry. The Madame pulled the girl aside, under the inspecting glances of the others.
He almost expected the older woman to glance up toward where he now settled, but when she watched Christine instead then pulled her aside, he gave an inward nod. It was rare for Giry to go against his wishes, though he didn't make a habit of writing requests that dealt with anything beyond the opera and its house. Rehearsals were going along well enough, and swiftly from the look of it. Though that might have been his anticipation that made the time pass quickly. He almost considered making something happen just so it would end abruptly. But no, the line needed to continue their practicing. It would not do if Christine was the only one with a wonderful voice and an adequate dance routine.
After exhaling a quiet breath, he gathered his portfolio and dragged it to his lap, determined to get at least something done while the rehearsals drew to a close. Opening up the leather, he brushed his fingers along the top parchment, an index finger running over the words that had been plaguing him for far too long; Don Juan Triumphant. No matter how much he tried, he just couldn't get beyond the first act and it was truly beginning to become troublesome.
The bright ingénue listened intently to Giry's demand, nodding and giving a short curtsy before returning to the group of girls gathered at the bar. Some still looked upon her, ruffled by her earlier performance at the piano, while others were curious about the message Giry had given her. Just as her blonde companion moved to question her, the instructor began that tapping of her cane to the stage, calling out the steps. With one hand Christine clutched the bar, the other extending gracefully to her side.
"Softer plié, Miss Jammes," the Madame called.The girl did as instructed, and these exercises continued on for some time before the troupe was instructed to work the routine choreographed by the Prima Ballerina herself, La Sorelli. Throughout the entire rehearsal, Christine still sensed, without fear, the presence of the Voice. She even indulged in that flattering fact, and she sprinted and leapt with the same vigor that she sang with, as if to impress her new tutor. She fancied herself the votary of the Angel, and setting aside the first glimpse of her earthly feelings for the heavenly being, applied the instructions he had given her for her voice to her dance, resulting in a convincing and near perfectly timed dance.
Flipping the pages to find his stopping point, he glanced up for the fourth time, settling his gaze upon the now dancing woman. A brow subtly rose as he noticed that even that had improved within this short amount of time. It wasn't perfect, but with time it would be. Soon he found himself closing up the parchments again as well as the leather, hand settling against its surface. Maybe he would write more later, after he had practiced with the young woman. No others would he glance to. She held his full attention.
The great willows of her arms lifted towards the heavens, her rehearsal tutu flaring about her as she spun in time with the others. Where once there was the shy chorus girl who had taken every opportunity to hide in the back row, there now dwelled a blossoming young woman with the vigor in her veins of a lover, and of a child. Her eyes were aglow with the Voice's inspiration, her smile a genuine expression of her new found friend and guide into the art she so strived to please her father's memory with. She no longer feared the recklessness of losing herself in the passion of the dance and of the song, no longer lingered on the abyss of feeling. Her senses now soared with it, until rehearsal ended and the stage slowly began to empty.
There came a time when, though his eyes were on her, his mind was elsewhere. He followed each of her movements, every lively step, and every gesture she gave. Inwardly there was music placed with it, but nothing he heard was Reyer playing at the time. Shaking out of that haze he'd drawn himself into, he collected the portfolio and pressed up to a slow stand, ensuring that he didn't disturb the curtains with his movement.
Smoothing his fingers against the surface of the pillar at his side, the hidden latch was found and he opened the door that only he knew about. Not even Madame Giry, who often collected her wage and left his own salary knew of that secret entrance and elevator. Resting upon the platform within, and closing the door, the seating was lowered by way of pulled ropes, drawing him down to the first floor and beneath.
Giry led the flock of scuttling young girls towards the dressing rooms, while Meg accompanied Christine to her own with obvious excitement. Once within the privacy of the dressing room, the blonde became an instant fountain of questions. "Have you been deceiving us, Christine? Leading us to believe that you weren't really good all along? What alchemist has spun your voice into gold so suddenly?" She went about with these remarks as Christine slipped over her dance taffeta and tutu the crisp white lace of her robe, tying it around her shapely waist and loosening her curls from the braid they'd been fastened in.
"A voice of gold, Meg?" She laughed sitting at her wardrobe. "That would be much too heavy to carry." Meg's obvious disappointment showed in the pout that set apart her lips, and after several moments of endless pestering that offered no amount of substantial gossip for the lounge, she left her little friend to meet her mother in the carriage. Christine, however, lingered behind as instructed.
Soon he was out into the hidden corridors, making his way to the hall that would lead him to the line of dressing rooms. This time he didn't remain between them, but silently scaled the stairs as she and Meg spoke. He listened quietly, almost expecting her to give away their secret, but was quite pleased when she stilled her tongue. The floor to ceiling mirror-window allowed him to view her whole dressing room, and Christine as well as she moved about.
After Meg left, Christine almost sighed with relief. She liked Meg, really she did; she adored the company of the girl and even the little trinkets of gossip she received from her, but with the anticipation of hearing from her Angel, the need for privacy was too great. He had instructed her to go to the stage, though as of now she was sure its wooden surface was still scattered about with stage hands and the other assorted hired help of the Opera.
Muffled voices ventured from the other dressing rooms, girls still changing and giggling with each other before she heard them lock their doors and head upstairs to the lounge or to their taxis. It was quiet during the few brief moments that she strained to listen, her eyes fixated on the reflection that the three mirrors upon her dresser cast. Each granted her a different angle of that rounded, cherubim visage; the apple of her cheeks reddened with life, her great doe eyes lined by thick lashes and nestled beneath a fine brow structure and forehead. Her thick mass of curls curved along her jaw and the slender nape of her swan's neck, falling to the small of her back and across her ample breast. She inspected all of this in silence, moistening her lips and running her palm across her cheek idly.
Resting the leather folder aside, he took his place behind the mirror, only a few feet from its surface, and tilted his head to the side while skimming his gaze along her form. It wasn't in an intimate manner that he did so, but rather a simple regarding of the woman that had strangely attracted his attention. What is it about you, little Daae? Lifting a hand he dusted his fingertips against the one-way glass, drawing along the length of her hair where it met the small of her back.
Pressing his lips thin, he pulled his hand down, sinking it beneath the weight of the cape for it to be pushed into the pocket of his slacks. He wore his usual evening wear, rarely did he don anything else. At least here he wouldn't have to worry about her being able to see him. Why, pray tell, have you drawn my consideration when I have overlooked many others before you? "Are you ready for your lessons, Christine?" He spoke gently, kindly. The voice seemed no where near the large mirror, but in a hush along side of her ear, as if her angel was afraid others might hear him.
His voice did not take her by surprise despite the closeness of its proximity. In truth, she somehow felt, and thus knew, he was there with her, watching, waiting. She could hear that voice as if he was there in a man's form beside her, speaking low against her ear and rustling the small curls against her cheeks, soft as a lover's touch. In the hours since their first lesson, Christine had found herself increasingly aware of her growing fascination with him. She was even somewhat childishly protective when Buquet and the ballet students spoke of him with demeaning tales of horror and mischief.
She was inevitably forced to curse and reprimand them in her mind, only. So it was that with his soft voice and the arrival of his presence her heart was lifted, her spirit fulfilled merely by his attention. Nodding in response to the Voice that held her obedient and attentive, she smiled and turned to scan the small room with her eyes, though she was keenly aware she wouldn't find him. She caught her reflection in the large mirror that took up the far wall and stood, tightening the satin bow that held her robe together. "I am."
Slowly he dropped his chin, then lifting a hand, he smoothed his fingers over the dipping side of the fedora, drawing it further over the porcelain half of his visage, shadowing it. "You sang beautifully today. And your dancing has taken a turn for the better as well. This pleases me." Lowering his arm and bringing it along the span of his torso, the other lifted soon after, folding across in a comfortable stance.
Her nearing of the mirror almost caused him to step back, but he knew from experience that he couldn't be seen. He didn't make it a habit to watch the women, and when he did it was for a particular purpose. Never did he stay long enough to watch them switch clothing, that just wasn't in his nature. Even the thought alone was abhorrent. It wasn't that he hadn't seen the nude body of a woman, he had had plenty of glimpses within the 'employ' of the Shah. He simply didn't feel comfortable for it was, in its own right, wrong.
She in turn was pleased with his compliment, hanging on to every disembodied word of his gentle voice. To hear his approval greatly satisfied her, and as he had instructed the night before, she took this with a humble gratitude. "I hoped it would please you. It's because of you." Something troubled her then, a loathsome thought she felt compelled to share with him, merely because she had no one else to share it with. "But Carlotta ... " Her voice trailed off and she was sure he knew of what occurrence she spoke of.
Her hands lifted to ring themselves nervously. She spoke quietly then, pacing slowly in bare feet, her brow knit together in frustration. She feared Carlotta was suspicious, or feared, even, that perhaps this Angel had once visited the Prima Donna herself – though this thought was one of simple irrational birth – and trained her, thus her fame and fortune despite not having an outstanding talent. No, surely not. Christine paused in her pacing, settling down again on the stool that rested before her dresser.
Her first comments caused a slow smile to form against the corners of his mouth, though the mentioning of that cow brought the gesture to an abrupt halt and reversal. "Do not worry over Carlotta," he stated abruptly, that warm tone turning icy for just a moment. But then, as if soothing a balm over a wound he had verbally inflicted, the coaxing sound of his voice was heard again, touching both ears as if he was speaking directly to her mind. "Focus only upon yourself and your performance, Christine. There is a long while yet before the opera is to be held. I will train your voice every day if I must. You will be Elissa, I promise you." It was a leap, but he would make sure that she would gain that part, by any means necessary. The stilled position he held was broken as he drew closer to the glass. Now but a foot or so from its surface, he was able to get a much clearer view of her there in the light.
"Ishall sing as Elissa? I don't understand. The roles were cast weeks ago, and La Carlotta has an understudy. Even so, she'd never allow the likes of me, a chorus girl, to sing in her place." She said ' chorus girl' as if to demean herself. It was true that La Carlotta lacked any real depth or the quality of an ingénue to play the part, or even an extraordinarily beautiful voice to produce the same heart wrenching effect that Christine had the night before, but the Prima Donna had friends, a loyal band of admirers, and devotees that applauded her very entrance into a room. Naturally, she held some sway on the managers. Bowing her head, she inspected her hands as they folded over one another, her hair falling into her eyes as she basked still in the assurance of his presence.
"Oh ye of little faith," he tsk'd faintly, his head shaking even though she couldn't see the gesture. Drawing in a slow, silent breath, he expelled it as muted, molten, golden eyes opened to rest upon the non-reflective side of the mirror, and her as well. "It matters not what La Carlotta will allow, my dear. It is not she who makes the decisions, but the audience. They may love her now, but upon hearing your voice..." he trailed a moment, sounding almost wistful against the shell of her delicate ear. "That will change. With me tutoring you, all will change. You will be the new Prima Donna. Not that screeching parrot. You will sing Elissa," he stated with more than a little conviction within his voice.
How the young beauty's face was troubled by such a change in her life. In the matter of moments, hours even, he was promising her the glory she had always wanted, but with what price? What could he hope to gain from this, and was this even a question of gain? Christine still had so much to learn of life, of men, and of the affairs of her own heart, which rested in a murky turmoil of emotion and confusion.
She felt almost as if her voice wasn't her own, its golden expanse merely his own that came flowing like a spiritual revelation through her body. She dared not question him further, her gaze lifting to find the mirror and though she could not see him, she sensed somehow that perhaps looking into her own reflection, into herself, she found him. "Perhaps it is because of my own silly fears that I feel unprepared for such a feat."