Author's Note: I am so sorry to do this, but I am officially raising the review quota for double updates. It's just that you guys have been so wonderful with your reviews, that I've almost run out of chapters, which means we could well hit another target and I wouldn't have anything to post. I'd rather stick with a regular posting rate and give you good chapters that have been properly edited, than end up rushing things - and at the rate we've been going, I seem to be double updating every day. So whilst I'm sorry to do this (I don't want to look greedy, because I do appreciate your feedback), I will now do double updates for every 15 reviews that I get i.e. Next one's when we hit 45. I hope this chapter makes up for that though: it's something a lot of you have been asking for.
Thanks again to Soignante, Lady Winifred, mildetryth, Busanda, CarolROI and Erik'sLittleLotte once again for their reviews. If anyone's getting tired of reading this, sorry, but I don't get tired of reading reviews, and I certainly don't stop appreciating them. Anyway, on with the story, enjoy! Nedjmet.
Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.
Chapter 13
Had anyone looked for signs of life in the darkened house, the most they might have found was a sleeping girl. No spiders, no mice. The place was too spotlessly clean for that.
Had anyone looked closer, they would have wondered at the shadow that moved so silently and effortlessly – a shadow that had neither source nor light to come from. A shadow that had a distinctly human shape. They would have wondered how it managed to appear out of nowhere, and disappear so effortlessly through the door that had no key.
Had anyone looked, they would have thought it a ghost.
Had anyone looked, they would not have been far wrong.
He had waited until he knew she would be asleep. Even though she retired before nightfall, he did not want to take any chances. It would not do for rumours about the ghost to circulate that he had not deliberately crafted – at least no more than they already did. Besides, whatever illusions she had about the place, he was not about to dispel them.
What was it about this girl? Was it the pain and sorrow that almost never seemed to lift from her face? Was it the solitary existence she seemed so desperate to maintain? Was it the hardships she had obviously gone through that at times made her seem far older than her years? Was it that she claimed to hear his music even though he had not played a note within the house since she had been there?
His earlier thoughts came back, and then it struck him: she reminded him of himself. They really did have much in common.
Giry was right: he did live for music. There was little, if anything else for him – and there was nothing else that allowed him such a release from the torments he was forced to endure each day. There were few who had ever truly heard his music. There were few who he had allowed so deeply into his confidence.
She heard.
If they shared as much as he had been led to believe, then she would be in need of the music as well – and yet the silence hung so oppressively on the house! It was for this reason that, for a few brief moments, he had actually found Little Giry's earlier presence a relief. Were it not for Giry's words, he would not have been able to understand why silence reigned in music's stead.
She says it is a music she does not know and I believe that is why she can bear it.
How could she have known his music? But now: now that she had lived with the 'echo' of it – as it had been deemed – she would recognise it, if she had truly heard.
Anything else just reminds her of what she has lost.
The silence had gone on too long. It was time to remind her of what had not been lost.
It was time to heal.
He paused at the bottom of the stairs as he realised the irony of the situation: the Opera Ghost, the terror of Ravelle, being cautious in his own house because of a quiet girl! The freak, the demon –a healer? She had seen the beauty that was hidden within the house. Perhaps she could see . . . the idea did not seem so foolish now.
It was with these resolves, that he made his way to the first floor.
Whilst the ballet mistress had a copy of the key into the cellars, she did not possess a key for this room. Only he had that. He knew the girl must wonder about the door and what was behind it; for he had heard her footsteps pause on the landing before it many times. Yet she had done nothing to get inside. He wondered if she was always this respectful. And obedient.
He also wondered in how many more ways she was going to intrigue him whilst she lived under his roof.
He paused once the door was closed behind him and looked around. The state of the room shocked him. Since the door had remained locked, the place had not known her careful touch. He felt keenly the lack of her presence here. It should not have bothered him, as his other residence did not bear her mark. But in a house that she had so completely transformed, even though it was only with the smallest touches: the room felt . . . bleak.
It felt too much like him.
But he could not let her in. Not yet. Not until he had a greater measure of her. Until he knew whether she heard.
He moved silently across the wooden floor to the grand piano that took up the pride of place in the centre. He pulled back the cover that he had set over it, revealing the sleek, shiny black surface beneath. The silk barely whispered as it sank to the floor, forgotten. No thoughts within this room but thoughts of music.
He carefully lifted the lid and for a moment, lovingly caressed the black and white keys. Not playing. Not yet. A smile peeked out from the corner of his mouth. Only music could provoke such unguarded endearments from the shadow. Only music was so constant.
He turned away, moved over to the windows and opened the heavy curtains that had the room shrouded in darkness. The light of the dark washed over him, illuminating the mask, bouncing off every polished surface in the room – and given its uses, there were many. He closed his eyes briefly, savouring the stars' flickering glow and the moon's cool caress.
He thought of Christine, and wondered that she would go to such lengths to avoid such tremulous splendour.
Christine
Even in this room, this sanctuary of music, she still occupied his thoughts.
He brushed the dust from the stool and once again placed his hands gently on the keys.
'She craves solitude and shuts herself away from everything, even music, because she can no longer bear life,' 'She was a child of music,' 'She hears the music in your house,' 'She says it is a music she does not know and I believe that is why she can bear it,'
As these words circled his mind, he thought of the child asleep upstairs. He thought of her beautiful face, marred by the bitterest sorrow – the pain of loss. He thought of the one she resembled so closely: the one whom he had lost. He thought of music in each of its many facets and all of its splendour.
And this time, as he caressed the keys: music came forth.
The darkness was closing in around her, her senses unable to defend against it. It was consuming her, overwhelming every feeling she possessed. She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the horror that she knew was coming.
Then she heard it . . . so gentle it could have easily been missed. A soft, lilting melody that reached out to her through the torment. As it grew and developed, her tears were swept away unshed. . .
She opened her eyes to the darkness, but was not afraid this time. She heard the music. It spoke of loneliness, of emptiness. And it filled her heart. Her breathing steadied as that almost forgotten sensation swept over her: she gave herself up to the music, drowning in it, never wanting to surface again.
As it eventually faded away into its echo once more, her consciousness faded with it; but her slumber was not to be troubled again this night. Her dreams were filled with music, with the words of a father, spoken in promise to the child who alone could claim his love in this world.
His hands rested on the keys. They never left until the music had died away – although apparently, this took longer than he had originally thought. He closed the lid and covered the piano with as much care as he had shown before. He moved even more silently – if that was possible – as he closed the curtains and left the room once more. He did not want any noise to disturb the beauty of what had been created.
He found himself stood on the landing again. A thought ran through his mind that became more prominent the longer he remained unmoving. Giry would have his head if she knew what was going through it at present. But he had to know.
He made his way up the stairs instead of down, moved down the hall and placing his hand on the door, prepared himself to do that which he had told himself he never would. He stepped into the room, and moving over to the far wall, knelt down.
Christine lay before him, turned onto her left side.
The look of peace on her face, coupled with the small smile it produced transformed her. Yes, she had been lovely when he saw her first, but now that her troubles were gone from her features . . .
She rolled over onto her back. He jumped back, afraid that she had awoken. Her eyes remained closed. He saw her fully now.
God truly was an artist to create such beauty.
The look on her face was enough. He knew he had done the right thing. More importantly, he knew she had heard.
Her mouth opened slightly, as though she would speak. He was disappointed when no sound came out. Even in her sleep though, she could astonish him.
As he made his way down to the cellars and his own bed, his thoughts were again filled with her in wonder. Twice now, she had mouthed a word to him. Twice now she had addressed him without knowing. Twice now, she had reached out to him.
Twice now, she had called him 'Angel.'
Another Author's Note: Sorry, me again. Special mention in the next chapter for anyone who can correctly guess what he played. Thanks. Nedjmet.