I don't own the Phantom of the Opera.
This chapter is dedicated to my friend Krow, who looked it over and caught my idiot-mistakes, and to all the people who read this and encourage me to write more with their squees.
Chapter Seven: Difficult Emotions
Christine cautiously entered her dressing room after the performance, remembering what had happened yesterday—had it only been one day? Once again it was full of bunches of flowers. She looked hopefully towards the vanity: it was empty. He hadn't come.
She sighed and closed the door behind her. Going behind the screen, she changed into a nightdress. She wasn't sure if she felt relieved, or disappointed. Maybe he hadn't liked her singing that night, or maybe he was still angry with her.
This not knowing what he was going to do or what he felt was a torment to her. She fully repented of her foolish action in pulling off his mask. She regretted seeing his face. At the time, she had been too overwhelmed with dealing with his anger and its consequences to really think about it, but she could still picture it. She could picture every horrid inch of it, as if it was imprinted on her brain. She shuddered, and yet she realized that if she didn't concentrate on his face, it was easy to lose what she had seen in the image of him she already had in her mind. So she resolutely shoved the thoughts away. She could deal with his face later; she wasn't ready to face it now.
As she finished getting ready for bed, she realized what she really repented of was of angering him, and then leaving the encounter on such an uncertain note. Would he still watch over her and give her lessons? Or would he abandon her? Not knowing was like being on an island in the middle of a chasm. Both her bridges were gone: she couldn't go back to pretending the Phantom didn't exist, but she couldn't figure him out either.
Feeling somehow compelled, she tentatively called out, "Angel?" There was no answer.
She waited a moment, and then reluctantly climbed into bed. Suddenly, she had a thought. Last night after the show she had gone to dinner with Raoul, and then he had shown up. Maybe he would come later.
She resolved to sit up until he did.
She wasn't exactly sure why she needed to resolve this so much, why she needed to see him again, but she knew she needed to. She struggled to keep awake, but exhaustion rose to swamp her mind within minutes. Before she was completely asleep she thought she heard the faintest notes of music, coming from the depths of the Opera.
She woke up the next morning stiff from having slept half-sitting up. She rotated her neck, wincing as it cracked. Her eyes scanned the room eagerly. Nothing: no roses, no notes, and no sign the Phantom had ever been there.
A week passed in the same manner. It was as if the Phantom had never existed. Hannibal continued its run, Christine performing splendidly each night. And each night she called out to her Angel, but he never came. She began to think he had abandoned her. After all, he could have written and sent those notes before she pulled his mask off. Perhaps he considered them a mistake.
Meg remained concerned about Christine, who constantly seemed pale and on the verge of tears. Christine avoided really speaking to her, knowing her friend still sought answers. She still couldn't give those answers.
One day, Meg pulled her aside, "Christine, I'm worried. You're going to make yourself ill if you go on like this. Is it because of," she leaned forward and lowered her voice, "the Phantom?"
Buquet, passing by, caught the word "Phantom," if not the question. He stopped beside the two girls, leering at them, "Gossiping about the Phantom are you? Well, despite his lack of tricks lately, he's still near. I can sense it. You'd best be careful or he'll have his revenge on you!"
Christine looked at him with scorn, "And what about you? You talk of him often."
Buquet smiled toothily at her, "Oh, I'm safe enough, cherie. I know this place better than any of you."
They had gathered a small crowd by this time, mostly ballet rats. One of the other dancers, Jammes, pleaded breathlessly, "Please, tell us about the Opera Ghost!" The other girls, except Christine and Meg, agreed and pressed in closer, although they had all heard the stories numerous times.
"Well," he began, clearly enjoying this, "as you know, the Opera Ghost has a horrible face. If fact, it's a death head, a death head with no nose. If you were unfortunate enough to come upon him in the dark, his eyes would glow with the fires of Hell. This Opera House is his; everything falls under his control. He even tells the managers what to do. And if anyone doesn't follow his order…" he paused and leaned closer to his enraptured audience, "he'll cause a disaster that would destroy it, and everything in it."
All eyes went to Christine; it was now common knowledge that the Phantom had demanded she be kept in the lead role. She flushed, but had had enough of Buquet's stories. "If this Opera House is his," she asked, "then why would he destroy it?"
Buquet frowned at her. "Don't question what he does if you want to live, mademoiselle," he warned.
"I don't believe any of it!" She swept out of the circle, desperate to escape, leaving behind murmurs. After all the Christine knew about the Phantom, with all of the problems she was having with him, she couldn't stand to listen to anymore of Buquet's stories. Buquet looked angry for a few moments, then went back to scaring his audience.
Another week went by, and it was suddenly the last performance of Hannibal. Christine was an emotional wreck. She felt so tense, waiting for the Angel to show up, that she could never truly relax. Bit by bit she was wearing herself down.
No one else felt it, of course. To them, if they even noticed, the Phantom's absence was a relief.
The last show came and went without a hitch. Christine entered her dressing room after it, strangely eager. Tonight, she felt, was the most likely night the Angel would return to her, if he ever meant to return at all. But once again the room was empty. Desolate, Christine changed into her nightgown and climbed into bed. The darkness had never seemed so lonely.
Erik set down his pen with a sigh, slowly coming back to reality. Removing his mask with one hand, he rubbed his eyes with the other and stretched his back, arching and twisting it until it popped. It had been a long two weeks.
After he had escorted Christine back to her room, he had come back to his lair and began composing furiously. He had poured all of his emotions into the music: his terrible anger at her betrayal and removal of his mask, and his extreme despair that, having seen what was beneath it, she could no longer stand to be near him. It was the only way he knew to deal with his emotions; he hadn't trusted himself to see Christine again, not right away. So he had remained in this state for almost the entire two weeks, barely breaking his concentration for food or sleep, until he had exhausted all of his feelings.
Bleakly, he wondered why Christine hadn't just sent the gendarmes crashing through the mirror and down to his home. Certainly she must believe him a monster. Maybe she had left the Opera altogether, eager to escape from him.
Almost without hope, he made his way up the passage to Christine's mirror. If, against all reason, she had stayed, she would be there. While she had slept in his bed, he had sent instructions reading that she was to continue in the lead role. The managers wouldn't have disobeyed those; he could trust Madame Giry to see to that.
As he ascended, he could tell the opera was silent. It was night then. Christine would definitely be in her room, if she was here at all.
He reached the mirror and looked through it. He could see Christine's form on the bed, and a wave of relief washed through him. She hadn't left, hadn't run away.
But something was amiss. He peered through the mirror and frowned as Christine gave a faint moan and rolled over. Almost without thought, he silently slid back the glass and entered the room, making his way to her side. She was restless, twitching and rolling from side to side. She was also mumbling in her sleep. He bent over her to hear what she was saying.
"No…don't leave…alone," her voice was anguished. She continued, "Angel…please come back. I didn't mean to."
His heart constricted, and he stared down at her sleeping form in astonishment. She missed him? No, he sternly corrected himself, she misses her Angel of Music, not you. But he couldn't quell the hope that formed unbidden in his heart.
She whimpered softly, drawing his attention back to her. "Shh," he whispered soothingly, "I'm here." He couldn't resist stroking back the soft curls that had fallen over her face. "I'll always be here."
He knelt beside the bed and began to croon a lullaby. Slowly she calmed, slipping into a deeper sleep. Only when she was still did he stop singing. He didn't get up. He wanted to watch her sleep a little longer.
Calculating the time passed in his head, he realized that Hannibal had run its course. Looking down at his sleeping angel, he now bitterly regretted the feelings that had kept him locked in his lair for the past weeks. What had he missed? What had she thought?
Christine sighed in her sleep, jolting him out of his reverie. Reluctantly, he got up. It was past time he made contact with his managers concerning casting for the next production. Christine would sing the lead again, and this time he would be there to hear every performance. He exited the room, closing the mirror softly behind him. He would be writing notes tonight, but first he had to secure a gift for his angel.
Christine woke to someone shaking her shoulders. For an instant, a dim recollection of a soothing voice and gentle hands flitted through her mind, but it was gone too fast for her sleepy mind to follow.
The hands shook her again, "Christine, Christine wake up. The managers have asked to see you in their office."
It was Meg's voice, her tone impatient. Blearily, Christine opened her eyes. She remembered coming back to her room last night after the performance. Then she had collapsed into bed after finding the room empty of any signs of him.
Again, her dreams from the night before came to mind. She had dreamed he had been there, that he had sung to her. But that had just been a dream, she was sure of it.
She realized Meg was still talking above her. "Christine? Are you really awake? You have to get up; the managers want to see you."
Christine yawned and sat up. "The managers?" she repeated stupidly, "Now?" She reluctantly pushed herself out of bed and over to the basin. After splashing her face with the tepid water she turned back to Meg, who had sat down on the edge of the bed. "Do you know what they want? And how did you get in here?" She knew she had locked the door last night.
Meg held up a key, "Maman gave me a key. You weren't answering my knock. And I don't know what they want, but Carlotta is there too."
Christine sighed irritably, and quickly got dressed. She didn't want to talk to the managers, especially if Carlotta was there. Tying her hair back with the black ribbon she had kept from the Angel's rose, she opened the door and motioned for Meg to precede her into the hallway.
They walked down the halls to the managers' office. Madame Giry met them outside the door, looking worried. "There you are, child," she said with yet another cryptic look, "I was beginning to think you had vanished." Before Christine could answer, Madame Giry swept her into the office and shut the door, leaving Meg outside.
Firmin was seated behind his desk. André was in front of it, clutching and fawning over Carlotta's hand. The diva was sitting on a chair, clearly not placated. André was speaking, "Please Signora, we are overjoyed at your return. You will of course have your old position back, we wouldn't think of doing anything else."
Christine grimaced. Carlotta had clearly discovered she was nothing without her singing career and had returned. And it appeared she would be singing lead again. Christine tried not to mind—she had only sung in one show after all. But surely the managers hadn't summoned her just to tell her she wouldn't be getting the next lead role? She stayed silent, standing partially behind Madame Giry just inside the office.
The click of the door as it had swung shut caused Firmin to look over at them. Christine couldn't read his expression as he stood and gestured her to the other chair. "Mademoiselle Daaé. Please have a seat; there are matters we need to discuss."
Timidly she walked to the chair and sat down. Madame Giry came and stood behind her, her manner stiff and disapproving. Christine began to get a bad feeling in the pit of her stomach—something was amiss here.
She knew she was right when, a few feet away, Carlotta jerked her hand from André's grasp and rose to her feet, anger mottling her face. She pointed a finger at Christine and spat, "She is the one behind this! This is all a trick so she can take over my spot." Suddenly she started weeping, and sank back down into the chair, theatrically sobbing into the handkerchief André offered her.
Stunned at the sudden accusation, Christine looked perplexedly from Carlotta to Firmin. The managers were again focused on Carlotta. "Signora please," Firmin entreated, "you will have your old position back. We will not follow every order we receive on a note!"
At the word "note" Christine paled, her heart fluttering wildly. A note?
Firmin looked at her. A slight frown was on his face as he said, "We have received this morning, Mademoiselle, a note identical to the last, instructing us to cast you in the lead of the next production, which is Il Muto. However, as La Carlotta has returned we feel that her experience makes her more fit for the role of the Countess. You will play the secondary part of the Pageboy." He noticed Christine's pale face and added, "Do you understand, Mademoiselle Daaé?"
Numbly, she nodded. This news had thrown her mind into turmoil, her breathing growing shallow. He hadn't abandoned her! He might even be watching now. She became aware that her fingers were clutching her skirt. With an effort, she forced herself to relax, smoothing back down the material.
She was about to get up and leave when Madame Giry spoke up, "It is not wise to disobey his orders, Messieurs. Do not do anything you'll regret later."
Firmin stood up and leaned forward, his voice angry, "And do not say anything you'll regret later, Madame. We are the managers here; do not presume to threaten us—we will not take orders!"
"I do not threaten you, Messieurs, but I have seen what happens when he is disobeyed."
Firmin was practically bellowing by this point. "There is no he. The Phantom of the Opera does not exist! This," he brandished the note, "is a trick, a very poor joke. La Carlotta will play the Countess and Mademoiselle Daaé will play the Pageboy. That is my final word!" He sank back down into his chair, glaring at Madame Giry.
Twisting in her chair, Christine could see that Madame Giry was glaring back.
"If that is your decision," the ballet mistress said, in a cold tone, "then may the consequences be on your head. Come Christine." She swept towards the door.
After one last bewildered glance at Firmin, Christine got up and followed her out of the room. Once again events were plunging ahead at a rapid rate, leaving her to make what sense of them she could.
She followed Madame Giry back towards the ballet dormitories, intending to confront the ballet mistress on her knowledge of the Phantom. She was tired of being in the dark about what was happening.
They reached the door to Madame Giry's room, which was right next to the dormitories, and stopped. She began to speak, "Madame Giry—"
But her opening was lost as the Madame Giry turned around to face her. "He will not be pleased, my dear," she said, putting her hand on Christine's shoulder, "but he will not be angry with you. He will know it is not your fault his orders were disobeyed. He may even have been listening."
Christine met Madame Giry's knowing gaze and tried again, "Madame Giry, I need—"
But once again she was interrupted, this time by Meg coming out of the dormitory.
"What happened?" Meg asked, approaching them. "What did the managers want?"
Inwardly lamenting her friend's lack of timing, Christine turned to face her. Beside her, Madame Giry dropped her hand from Christine's shoulder and turned to face her daughter also. Between them, Christine could feel a mutual desire not to tell Meg about the Phantom.
"They just wanted to tell me what part I'm playing in Il Muto—the Pageboy." Seeing Meg's surprise, she continued, "Carlotta's back, and they gave the lead to her."
Meg scowled, "That toad! She came back after leaving for two weeks, and they give her the lead?"
"I know." Christine pulled a face, then sobered, "It's not as if I've had much experience though."
"Christine, you and I both know you're a better singer than Carlotta. Even if you won't tell me how that came about…" Meg looked inquiringly at Christine, who shook her head in the negative. Meg sighed, "You should talk to someone about it someday, Christine."
Who Christine wanted to talk to was Meg's mother, the sooner the better. But now was not the time. So she merely said, "I think I'm going to the chapel to pray."
Meg rolled her eyes, "You're always praying." But she didn't press anymore.
Christine took her leave of the Girys, but instead of going to the chapel, she returned to her dressing room. Her heart was pounding with…something. Was it hope or fear? She couldn't tell as she opened the door and slipped inside. Her gaze, as she shut the door behind her, flicked first to the mirror.
It was shut, and no voice issued forth immediately. She sighed, and leaned back against the door. She had been so sure…
Then she turned towards the vanity, and her mouth O'd in surprise. There was once again a perfect, red rose tied with a black velvet ribbon laying there. She went over and touched it with reverent fingers. He had come back, and it appeared that he had forgiven her.
Wisps of memory came back to her—glimmers of the dream she'd recalled as she'd awakened. Except maybe, she thought, it hadn't been a dream. Maybe it had been real. She sifted through her memory.
She had been in the foggy, dream state of the not-deeply asleep. She was alone. Petrified for some, unknown reason she had wept and called out for someone to hear her. But everyone had left her. They were all gone.
Then had come a soothing voice. A voice that had quieted her fears before singing a nameless melody that sent her tipping over the edge into true sleep.
Christine smiled now as she finally remembered the words the voice had spoken. I'll always be here.
She picked up the rose gently and inhaled its fragrance. Delicately tracing a petal with a fingertip, she called out softly, "Angel?"
As it had been for the past weeks, there was no answer. But now the silence was not as ominous. She was not alone.
Sorry It took so long for this chapter. Finals and end of the semester projects, you know. But I'm on break now, so I'll have lots of time for writing, hopefully.
Bee and Jenn- Squeeee for Cincy!
