A/N: A quote from Shakespeare:
I have night's cloak to hide me from their eyes,
And but thou love me, let them find me here;
My life were better ended by their hate,
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
Doesn't that just fit the Phantom perfectly? –dreamy sigh- Anyhow, you should probably move on now to slightly less acclaimed literature. :) Enjoy!
Christine focussed resolutely on the dull floorboards, trying not to listen to the faint sound of footsteps from beyond the closed door, trying not to imagine what Erik must be doing at that moment. She could very easily picture his foreboding visage atop Madame Giry's disapproving body, back stiffly straight, arms on irritated hips. She clapped a hand unwillingly to her face to cover a smile as the image presented itself to her frazzled mind, and slipped her other hand over the first, groaning slightly into her fingers as she remembered herself and her somewhat difficult current situation.
"Party for the florists," Erik muttered deprecatingly to himself, breaking the silence with a much-needed lightness. "That woman is always up and ready for the challenge of turning romance into cheap analogies." He shifted his weight slightly, and Christine flinched, hearing the floorboards squeak. "I really must try harder to put in the last word next time."
Christine turned her head slightly, peeping out to look at Erik wonderingly from around her clutching fingers. How could the man make light of such a wretchedly embarrassing, confronting situation? Exasperation soon began to replace her mortification.
"Some of what Madame Giry said did have its finer points, Erik," she said coolly, gaining courage from indignation. She gestured viciously towards her nightclothes, and shot her glare back to Erik. "Whatever happened last night, I do not recall surrendering my modesty to any man's eyes."
The Phantom laughed quietly, shaking his head fondly as he recognised the reason for her huff, an action seemingly so insensitive, so inadequate to Christine that her resentfulness grew tenfold.
Tears came to her eyes as Erik neglected to beg for forgiveness, or even explain himself, merely standing there, seeming to be simply amused. She angrily attempted to blink them away, but she could do nothing to hide them from her watchful companion.
He responded immediately to her tears, getting down on one knee before her and grasping her hand, the lightness of his humour immediately changing to utter earnestness as he gently nudged away the escaped beads of salt.
"I could scarcely let you stay in that corset all night, Christine. The things do horrors to your lungs, compressing them so dreadfully all day. If it were up to me, you should not be allowed to wear one at-"
He stopped mid-sentence, as if abruptly aware of how risqué his opinions seemed. And possibly the man realised that such an explanation sounded somewhat inadequate to the much maligned Christine.
Her gaze remained stuck on the floor. She opened her mouth and drew in a ragged breath before speaking. "So you undressed me yourself and saw-"
"Christine, you have been a dancer at this opera house for years. Do you think I saw any more of your body than the hundreds of men watching eagerly at every performance you've attended in your tights and slight gatherings of material?"
Erik sighed, frustrated by her dazzling naivety. But as he sighed he only gathered her closer. Christine allowed herself to rest warmly, comfortably against his body, knowing that her shadowy companion probably saw no wrong in his actions, but still wanted to calm her, ease her foolish fears. She pulled a little fold of black material over her head as she suddenly recalled Madame Giry's admonitions, knowing that the woman deeply, severely disapproved of such improper insinuations.
She felt Erik smile, somehow, as she muttered almost inaudibly against his chest. "I'm sure you have seen more of my body than Madame Giry would willingly approve."
"I'm sure Firmin has seen more of your body than Madame Giry would approve," he said softly, a smile evident in his voice. Christine laughed slightly despite herself and burrowed closer, deeply comforted by the warm vibrations made within Erik's chest as he talked.
"Sing to me," she murmured, wanting the tender soothing to continue. Erik stiffened a little as he contemplated her request before shaking his head regretfully, unwinding the fold of cloak covering Christine's head, and gazing into her revealed, questioning eyes.
"I cannot at this moment, my angel."
"Why not?" Christine asked plaintively, leaning more heavily against his bent knee in childish protest.
Erik glanced away, reaching out one gloved hand and touching a black ribbon almost pensively before answering. "I came here in the middle of painting a scene which needs to be completed before its beautiful inspiration evades me."
Christine leant back a little and surveyed the roses herself. "Show me," she suddenly said, gazing straight back into Erik's eyes.
"Not yet, my angel. It is not good enough at this moment." He raised one gloved finger to rest on Christine's lips, forbidding her imminent protests, and sighed a little. "I will show you when it is finished."
Christine nodded mutely, and watched as Erik pulled himself up and departed her dressing room with a courteous bow, sliding the mirror smoothly shut behind him. Her eyes dropped to her attire, and her cheeks reddened slightly. She was only thankful that Meg had left the room before Madame Giry had made that particular reprimand.
She got to her feet stiffly, her muscles not having escaped the consequences of half a night spent sleeping against a door. She arched her back, stretched her arms slightly and turned her neck until she felt most of the tightness ease away, leaving only a petulant ache. She looked down at the ring of flowers with her hands on her hips, surveying them thoughtfully, a little smile brightening her eyes. Bending down, ignoring the cracking of her knees, she gathered them one by one into a heavy bundle and squeezed them determinedly into a vase, trying not to let the ribbons catch.
Christine left the bedding where it lay dishevelled on the floor, and hastily stole back to her empty dormitory. Slipping on a modest dark green dress, feeling it best to appear meek and reserved to the utmost degree for the poor Madame Giry, she dressed her hair hurriedly into a demure bun before pausing her rushed activity upon a glance at the big wooden clock hanging on the opposite wall.
There was no way known she could slip unnoticed into breakfast, late as she was; there would be even more whispers amongst the ballet rats if she tried. Christine was often praised for her punctuality and obedience, noted most resentfully by less organised girls. No, it was better that she leave the mystery open. Perhaps they would merely assume she was ill. Hopefully Meg would help to add authority to such a rumour.
So what was she to do for the next half hour, at least? She felt far too restless to simply sit there on her bed and stare at the desperately dawdling hour hand of the clock.
Christine brushed her hands decisively against the front of her skirt and made her way out of the room. She would practise her singing, that's what she'd do! Things had been so distracting lately that her voice felt almost entirely unused. It would be easy to find an empty room somewhere near her dressing room in which she could practise her scales.
The girl had just extended her arm to turn the handle of a room when she heard the unquestionable voice of an angry Madame Giry ring out, barely muffled by the heavy wood of the door, freezing Christine's hand in mid-air. She stared at the door curiously at this unexpected occurrence, before flushing and pulling away, knowing that any eavesdropping would surely be most disastrous for her should she be caught. But as the rusty, low tones of some cigar-smoking man whose voice she did not recognise rolled out to her very interested ears, she slowly stepped back towards the door and listened despite herself, pressing her ear closer and closer as the intriguing conversation continued.
"Madame Giry," the raspy voice said, a little persistent, almost wheedlingly. "Surely such a diligent woman as yourself knows the ins and outs of this opera house. Why, I'd expect a woman like yourself to be familiar with all sorts of interesting information- and people- that most of us aren't lucky enough to."
"Monsieur l'Inspecteur, I do not attempt to imagine where you must be going with these pointless compliments."
Christine smiled. Even intruding as she was, completely unaware as to the subject of their conversation, she could still recognise the sardonic sarcasm in Madame Giry's tone.
"Madame, I should let you know that I'm quite in the dark about this case. Quite in the dark. My men haven't been able to find anything useful, anything which could help to unearth the culprit."
"Yes, maybe unearthing's what he needs," Madame Giry muttered, obviously talking more to herself than to her companion.
"See, it's comments like that which make me curious about how much you truly know of this so-called 'Opera Ghost'," the man said dryly, suspicion evident in his tone.
Christine gasped silently, covering her mouth with a hand. This man, this inspector, as Madame Giry had called him, was here to find Erik! How on earth had he known to speak to the strict old ballet mistress?
"All I meant was that if this villain is indeed a ghost, perhaps it is underground, or in a cemetery that your men should be searching," Madame Giry answered lightly, in a careless manner which Christine knew hid a dry humour.
There came a short period of silence in the room, only the sound of heavy pacing footsteps entering Christine's ears. Finally the footsteps stopped, and the man began to try another tactic.
"How long have you been teaching here, Madame?"
"Almost twenty years, Monsieur," she answered stiffly. Christine could just imagine the thin lines her lips must be making.
"And in those twenty years you were never once curious about the origin of this elusive Opera Ghost, never heard gossip of his past, or knew anyone who might've seen this pranking poltergeist?"
"Of course. I believe the last man to have claimed to see him is now underground himself, Monsieur. The name of Joseph Buquet would probably ring quite a bell."
"But I am not after a ghost, Madame. I am not after some unnatural demon. I am after a man. And I believe you know who and where he is." The inspector's tone was crisp and triumphant, the man having finally been able to reach his point and who was readily awaiting an ensuing confession.
Christine could almost feel the frosty silence pour vaporously from the crack at the bottom of the door. She bit her lip apprehensively and almost wished there was a keyhole beneath the handle, through which she could see the room's occupants.
Finally Madame Giry spoke. "Who gives you the right to accuse me of such abhorrent treachery?" The icy tone would have frozen any poor ballet girl in the wrong had it been directed at her, and indeed it seemed to have effect on the man within the room.
"My good woman," he started precariously, "I did not mean to accuse such a fine citizen as yourself, but you must understand that I am under considerable pressure to uncover the identity of the murderer and bring him to justice! Now, please answer me truthfully: Are you or are you not privy to the ghost's secrets like the managers seem to believe you are?"
"I will not bring myself to answer to such an offensive allegation."
Christine panicked when she heard the very definite sound of Madame Giry's light footsteps approaching the door rapidly, and raced across the corridor to another door, which she ripped open and hurriedly entered, ignoring the dark inside. Once she had heard Madame Giry stalk safely away, she sighed thankfully and made to turn the handle of the door, knowing that further absence after breakfast would be remarkably unwelcomed by her currently incensed ballet mistress.
She screamed as a hand slid down upon her own, and turned violently to look behind her. All she saw was darkness.
A/N: Cliffhanger much:)
A new character has appeared although we have not yet physically met him, and the plot of the story thickens. Yes, as well as fluff, there will now be actual original story backing it up! In my opinion, fluff always tastes better when there's intrigue in the background. Not that I eat fluff too often.
I do have fun writing Madame Giry; she's such a great character. And if Christine seems to wishy-washy so far, I'm sorry, but you have to do certain things to maintain an image of utter naivety. And someone had to take up the feminine wake left by the absence of Raoul. :)
Chibi Binasu-chan: This being mild fluffy story it is, you can decide for yourself whether Erik got "naughty" or not. (Lol.) Hopefully I explained her clothes well enough in this chapter. Hope you get better soon!
Nini-sky: Will the fop cause more angst in their relationship? I do not believe so, but don't worry, there will soon emerge a new conflict that I judge much better than le Viscomte de Hairspray.
Welcome to all new reviewers! I greatly appreciate all your comments although I don't have time to answer them all. Hope you've enjoyed, and please review for me!
Cheers, Froody