A/N: I've decided to update a little sooner than I expected, as I felt badly about not updating for so long. Also, I would like to clear up a few things regarding this story. I PROMISE you that there is a definite plot coming into play, and that it involves a scandal, secrets, lies and betrayal. I promise you, the good stuff is coming soon. Also, for those Erik/Christine lovers out there, do not get bored. I promise you, a lot of E/C action will be taking place. Particularly in the next chapter. Mostly it's of their relationship. So, if you can stand to put up with some Raoul/Christine action, I promise that you will be rewarded. Enough chat, here's Chapter 10.

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"That blush, perhaps, was maiden shame--
As such it well may pass--
Though its glow hath raised a fiercer flame
In the breast of him, alas!"
Edgar Allen Poe, "Song"

"What do you mean you sold our box? It is the box we have been entitled to ever since we've become patrons of the Opera!" Philippe was in a raging fury, his mustache bristling in agitation and his cheeks glowing as if blistered by a hellish flame. He was standing with both his hands upon the arms of the chair in the managers' office, clutching at them desperately with whitening hands.

"Monsieur Comte, please try to understand. We were sold out tonight! Le Prophete has not had such an admirable audience in some time, and we found it the perfect opportunity. We beseech your forgiveness." Monsieur Poligny was standing with his hands in front of him, twiddling his thumbs absentmindedly, whilst Monsieur Debienne was sitting in the chair behind the desk, having looked particularly uncomfortably during the interview. The silence was thick with tension, the only noise being the far-off sounds of the orchestra starting up and the constant chattering of the backstage crew fretting. After a few minutes' awkwardness, Raoul forced himself to speak, looking between the two managers painstakingly.

"Certainly there must be another box available?"

"There is no other box to speak of! Not a one! Our last boxes to sell were yours and Box five, and since you had not initially planned on attending tonight-.."

"Box five?" Raoul broke in. "Who bought box five tonight, gentlemen?"

Both exchanged excruciating glances, speaking at the same time in confused, babbling chatter.

"…do not know his name…"

"…quite out of our hands…"

" – really cannot mention anything.."

"…embarrassing…"

"Enough!" Philippe barked, pressing his fingers to his temples, his face screwed up in an anger that looked as if it were about to boil over. Keeping his voice as level as he could, he spoke with such a determined calm that both managers shifted in their respective positions. "If you do not know to whom you have sold the box, let us occupy it tonight, and simply exchange that box for another night's performance."

Again, both mangers looked between themselves, wringing their hands anxiously. Finally, Poligny relented, shaking his head as if trying to fight his own words as they tumbled from his mouth. "Very well, Monsieur Comte. The box is yours for tonight. However, should anything…peculiar happen tonight, do not say that we did not warn you!"

"Warn us of what, messieurs?" Raoul asked frankly, his eyebrows knitting together over questioning eyes.

"Quickly, now, the performance is going to start in fifteen minutes' time! You want to get to your seats quickly."

-'-,-'----

The lights were dimming inside the theatre, the glow of the stage becoming brighter and more cheerful than the eerie and darkened shadows of the box. Christine's hand was entwined with Raoul's, resting gently on her peach satin dress. Philippe was sitting on Raoul's other side, his expression of silent triumph and arrogance. Christine leaned into Raoul's ear, whispering softly, "What happened inside the managers' office earlier?"

Raoul smiled secretly, leaning towards her with half-closed eyes. "Philippe rebuked the managers for selling our box, and it was quite the heated confrontation."

"So why are we occupying another's box, then?"

"Philippe said," Raoul whispered back, "that in all his time at the Opera, box five had never been sold. He never knew why. All he mentioned is that he has never seen anyone ever leaving this box, or coming into it."

Christine frowned thoughtfully. Why was there a mysterious person buying this box at every performance, and then never occupying it? There was something very strange in that…

Forgetting her thoughts, Christine turned her attention to the stage as the overture began, its melody wafting through the air thickly like sweetened honey dripping over.

The stage was set as a country pasture, with farmers in the fields and maidens milking cattle with rosy cheeks amidst blushing suitors. The chorus sang cheerfully, their merry voices rising together in the simplistic rustic scenery, their lives unadorned, yet blissful. The story took take place in the Low lands, reminding Christine longingly of the simple, unadorned life she once shared with her father. She remembered chasing him across merry hillsides, laughing as numerous wildflowers tickled her nose and cheeks…

When the second act ended, Christine's insides froze with fright. There was a noise from somewhere behind her, and she could of sworn it said her name. A low, hypnotic whisper of breath, hardly a sound at all. Even in its infinite softness, it sounded agonizingly familiar…

Turning around in her seat, she glanced into the shadows, convinced she had heard a human voice that belonged to neither Raoul nor Philippe. Watching Christine's actions curiously, Raoul glanced behind him as well.

"Christine, is something wrong?"

Giving the shadows one last fleeting glance, she turned around in her seat. "No…I must have been imagining things."

-'-,-'----

His temper could only be matched with his ironic sense of humor when he approached box five.

His Box.

So, the managers had given over his box to another patron, had they? Well, they would do well to be more vigilant in the future. They were indeed fortunate that the very reason he was not about to frighten the group of patrons was because a certain young lady was among them.

A lady with her hand in another man's arm.

His momentary confusion was met with an absurd burst of some foreign emotion. What was it? He attempted to steady his hand by placing it inside his cloak, reaching into his pocket for…no, certainly not for that. What was his body doing, exactly?

Hiding in his usual concealment before he was discovered, he silently cursed himself for his insolence. How could he forget so easily that she was engaged?

To a handsome, rich patron of his Opera House, who had the audacity to sit in his seat, holding his pupil's hand loftily.

As outraged as he was, he couldn't help but look at the girl from behind. He could tell from the way she sat in her velvet, plush seat that she was transfixed by the performance. He was filled with a warmth, something that ached even as it relieved his soul momentarily of its usually wintry feeling. Even if the de Changy boy was in his seat, at least Christine was having an enjoyable evening. His sacrifice would not be in vain.

When he heard the familiar line, "Prenez ma vie!", he could not help but mouth the words noiselessly. As the second act came to a close, as he was sure it was ending, he could not but call out to her. With the utmost discretion, he whispered her name tenderly, throwing his voice so that it was directly behind her, and that only she could hear it. She turned around frantically, and he could tell that he had obviously startled her. Had her eyes been able to see into the darkness, she would have looked right at him, and as she did so he felt an involuntary wave of longing, that she might look at him in something other than fear.

She turned around again, her deep mahogany curls swinging over her shoulder delicately. The boy patted her hand, affirming her belief that she was hearing things.

Even if he could not name the emotion he felt when the Vicomte clutched her hand, at least he could label the passion he felt when the boy said that she was simply hearing 'things'.

Loathing.

-'-,-'----

Christine's appreciation after the final curtain largely surpassed that of both Raoul and Philippe that the former could not help but laugh. "Dearest Christine, if I am not to be misled, I would have to assume that you are trying to outdo our applause."

For some time Christine's sparkling eyes never left the stage, but when realization struck her that Raoul was speaking to her, she shook herself from her momentary reverie. "I'm sorry, Raoul, did you say something?"

He chucked good-naturedly, bringing her hand to his lips to place a butterfly kiss on the smooth, alabaster skin. "My apologies, Christine. I had quite forgotten the dream-like glow your eyes once had after the telling of a particularly good story, or after another adventure in the attic."

"I thought I had forgotten it as well, to be truthful," she indulged, her bright eyes dulling ever so slightly. With renewed vigor, Christine grasped his hand enthusiastically. "Raoul, do you remember the stories father told of the Angel of Music?"

He smirked self-confidently, entwining her arm into the crook of his own. "How could I forget, Little Lotte? The Angel of Music was always your favorite story."

"Well, Raoul, I had not thought of the Angel for a long while now. And do you know why? It is because I had given up hope in Him! I had thought that after my father died, there was no reason to believe in the Angel if father was not to share Him with me. But now I believe that the Angel is watching over me. That because music reentered my life, he is now with me."

"He always has been, Christine. Now come, we must congratulate Monsieur Reyer, or I am sure Philippe will have my head for such poor manners."

-'-,-'----

After Christine and Raoul left the box, Erik felt comfortable enough to slink out of the shadows. So, Christine had an Angel of Music? This would do well to leave him with a great advantage over the de Changy boy...

-'-,-'----

Christine had been standing next to Raoul when her shoulder was burdened with a cold, hard object. Turning around slowly, Christine was met with a pair of stony eyes flecked with patches of brilliant blue. The eyes were set in a hard face, accentuated with a thin nose and thin, pursed lips. The face was that of a woman, with long, dark grey hair that was plaited into a long, thick braid that ran down her back. She was wearing a black satin dress, probably of her own make. She wore nothing else, but held a walking stick proudly, leaning onto it with a questioning glitter in her eyes.

"Are you Christine Daae?"

"Yes, Madame."

The woman looked her up and down, as if to prove the fact for herself and, seeming to be satisfied, stood a little straighter in her posture. It gave her a very sophisticated air, which only heightened her aura of pride. "Christine Daae, my name is Mme. Giry. I was a friend of your father's before he died." She held back nothing in her manner of speech, speaking bluntly and with purpose.

"My…my father?" Christine asked, feeling suddenly very small.

"Yes, my dear. I remember you when you were a small child…no younger than seven or eight. You've grown into a young lady quite nicely, I must say."

She could not but help blushing modestly. "Thank you, Madame."

Mme. Giry nodded curtly. "It was one of your father's dearest wishes that you become a great vocalist, and he wished to see that happen here. I was under the impression that after his death you were to join the chorus, but I see you had other plans…" She glanced over Christine's shoulder at Raoul's turned back, his hand on another man's shoulder as they conversed animatedly.

Christine bit her lip, afraid to answer. "That was originally what I intended to do, Madame. After my father's….death…..I was confused. I didn't want to be alone at the time. I wanted companionship more than anything else."

Madame Giry looked down at Christine's hand, noting the band of gold around her finger. "I see," she said quietly. "Nevertheless, I was obliged to your father to watch over you, Christine. He loved you more than anything on this earth, and in his last testament he asked me to watch over you, as well as Madame Valerius."

Christine nodded, looking purely ashamed at her defiance of her father's wishes. Again, that smoldering, hot feeling of disgrace pressed against her heart, and she wished that she might do anything to move away from Mme. Giry's scrutinizing eyes…

She was saved from that stare when a petite blond-headed girl came rushing up to the woman in front of her, pink skirts flailing about as her small, pink feet pranced before them. "Maman! Maman! the girls have run off again, and they have left me behind!"

"Maman?" Christine eyes widened in shock as she realized where she had seen that haughty stance before. Meg Giry…Madame Giry was her mother! The girl paid Christine no heed.

"Foolish girls, if I have told them once I have told them a thousand times that there is no Opera Ghost!"

"But Maman, that is not what you said befo-…"

"Hush," Madame Giry shot at her, causing the girl to slink away with one burning glare.

"My daughter, Meg Giry, of the ballet corps."

"We've met before, Madame."

"Then you will know what a flippant, silly child she is." Yet in her eyes was a look so close to loving tenderness that Christine thought she had imagined it. "Excuse me, Christine, but I must tend to the ballerinas. I am, after all, their mistress, as much as it dishonors me."

Walking away as gracefully as a dancer herself, Christine imagined a younger Madame Giry, with dark hair and bright, determined eyes, her form as lithe as a cat. Age certainly did change people…

She was not to be let off for the night, however, as another haughty figure approached her from the side.

-'-,-'----

I do hope your having patience with me. But I promise you, I shall get to work on that next chapter as quickly as possible. I already have! Please review, it really means a lot when I see you are enjoying my work! But even critiqing it is bareable. Onwards!