Author's Note: Here you go, my loyal and ever faithful readers; the full chapter that's been almost a year in the making. I hope it was worth it was worth the wait.
Kisses, my lovelies.
Chapter Seventeen: The Masque
If there was a hell, then it was not the reeking, fiery inferno that resided deep beneath the surface of the earth, but it was in fact here on earth, and, more specifically, within the locked confines of Christine's room in the two days following the murder of Joseph Bouquet. Christine's sass towards her cousin did not go unpunished, and the following morning she found herself locked inside her room like a wayward child, completely cut off from any news of the outside world. Anxiety and restlessness began to consume her by the end of the first morning.
It did not take long for the news of the grisly murder at the Opera House to devour the city, despite the manager's best attempts to keep the scandal quiet. The upper tiers of the Parisian society were the first to become infected with the macabre gossip. The day after the murder, Christine's aunt invited some of her preening peahen friends to the Paris townhouse for afternoon tea. No sooner has the women been seated in the garden terrace, which by an amazing stroke of luck happened to be right outside of one of Christine's bedroom windows, did they fall upon the rumors like wild dogs on a carcass.
"Mousiers Andre and Firman claim that it was merely a vagabond who killed the man, but that's certainly a lie. Everyone in Paris knows that the Opera House has always been a playground for all manners of ghosts and spirits. From what I've heard, nothing mortal could have killed that man." One woman said as she stirred cream into her tea.
"I heard that the man was not merely killed." Another woman interjected. From where she sat at her window, Christine grimaced. The women were playing a favorite game of the aristocratic houses b trying to outdo one another with the juiciest bits of gossip picked u from the streets. "I heard that his eyes were burned from his skull and his body was blacked and charred, as though he had been scorched by an inferno from the inside-out. Only a demon could have done that."
Christine snorted softly at the women below her. From her view at the window, her aunt and her chattering friends, in their pale pastel dresses and wide-brimmed hats, looked like absurd, abstract flowers. They pecked at gossip on the streets like chickens pecked at corn; they would eat up anything that was thrown at them.
"Well," a woman in a peach-colored dress added with a sniff. "Regardless of what it is, the police couldn't find a lick of evidence that anyone out of the ordinary had been at the Opera House at all." Christine stiffened at the mention of the police, but relaxed as the woman continued. "It might as well have been a ghost. Still, I cannot believe those fools Andre and Firman insist on holding their absurd masquerade as though nothing had happened."
"Are you implying that you will not be attending, then?" Another woman in a baby-blue dress asked, her voice laced with a hint of malice.
Christine leaned forward on her window frame, suddenly intrigued. This was a common and dangerous game, played among the upper-class families. To challenge one's dignity and reputation was to embark on a risky challenge; one that almost ended in glory for one side and humiliation for the other. To gamble with one's honor reaped greater rewards and losses than any amount of money. The Opera House Masque was one of the most exalted events in all of France. It did not matter if the patrons were expected to strut about naked, or if the wine was rumored to be laced with snake venom – of if a stagehand was brutally murdered by a vengeful ghost – to not attend the Masque would be to loose face before the entire Parisian society.
"Of course I'm going!" The woman sniffed indignantly., hiding her unease behind her teacup. "Nothing so preposterous as the myth of a ghost will prevent that." Each woman murmured a word of agreement before returning to their own teacups, the discussion over. However, even Christine knew that her confident words held little merit. The true test of their social worth would take place on the night of the Masque. Christine could bet that only half of the women seated in the garden would actually be attending. The second half would end up spending their time between now and then cooking up some elaborate excuse to why they couldn't have possibly made it.
"So, tell us, Celeste." A woman in a yellow dress said, breaking the tension with a delicate change of conversation. "Have you decided what to do with that wayward niece of yours, Celeste?"
Christine's aunt choked on a mouthful of tea, the pale liquid dribbling down her powered chin and coming dangerously close to spotting her expensive pale-lavender satin dress. Christine would have laughed had it not been for the ominous chill that ran down her spine at the woman's question. She had always thought that her aunt took careful measures to ensure that no one outside of the family even knew that Christine existed. Or, at least, that was what she had always thought. What in the would could her aunt have mentioned to these women that Christine didn't know of?
"Oh, yes. That." Her aunt dabbed at the few droplets of tea that clung to her skin with a silk napkin, careful to not ruin her carefully applied makeup. Then she heaved a huge, overly emphasized sigh, the type designed to dredge up sympathy in a pitiful "woe-is-me" kind of way. "Oh, I just didn't know what to do with her anymore. You would think that after all we've done for her, that child would have the decency to show at least a little gratitude! Jean and I took her in when anyone else would have thrown her to the streets. We brought her into our home when we already had two mouths to feed, included her when we traveled to England, Spain, and Persia, and how does that ungrateful little brat repay us? With that abhorred attitude and a head full of clouds, that's how!"
"So the arrangements that have been made for her…" The woman in the peach dress began, but Celeste abruptly cut her off.
"Oh, yes, everything was finalized just last week."
"And who did you decide to go with?"
Aunt Celeste smiled, but it was a horrible, deceitful smile, and Christine's stomach turned over in sickening apprehension at the sight of it. "Well, I'd like to think of myself as a charitable woman, so I could not send her to the goat monger. That would have been cruel, do you not agree? Perhaps if his price had been a little higher, but it was the tallow merchant who showed the most interest in obtaining such a young and beautiful bride. If she was grateful for nothing else, she should at least feel some gratitude that I chose him and not any of the others. This gentleman sells the finest rendered pig-fat in all of France, so he has the means to support her. He's certainly a much better find than anyone she could meet on her own."
"That girl should indeed consider herself fortunate! If she had been my responsibility, I would have sent her straight to a nunnery!" The woman in the blue dress exclaimed. "When does the groom come to escort his blushing bride back to his estate?"
"He is on his way from the country as we speak, but because of the Masque tomorrow evening, I am in no state to entertain guests before then. He is due to arrive the morning after, and by that evening, Christine will no longer be any of my concern."
Christine collapsed to her bedroom floor, her legs no longer able to support her, her mind reeling so fast that for a moment she feared that she would be ill. She had no idea that her aunt had made arrangements for her to be married, none at all! And yet she was planned to be taken away from Paris the day after tomorrow, the bride of a complete stranger who made a living selling processed pig fat! Erik had told her to wait for him until they were ready to leave Paris, but what good would that do them if she was no longer here?
To hell with promises! If she stayed here and continued to wait for him, then they truly would be separated forever.
Christine took several deep, calming breaths, willing rational thought to return. Then she began to think.
-x-x-x-
The next night, Christine prepared for her escape.
The hours before had been nothing but slow torture, and each moment that passed felt like a moment wasted. A part of her desperately wished that Erik would appear at her window, ready to whisk her away, but when he never showed she knew that she had no choice but to take matters into her own hands. Once she was able to come up with an escape plan, she spent the rest of the time between than and the Masque memorizing every step, every detail until she could recite it backwards. Now that the hour was drawing near, however, Christine began to doubt herself. It might have been a working plan, but that did not make it, by any means, a good one. She was only going off her recollection of the floor plan of the Opera House, trying to recall all the out-of-the-way entrances that would all her to slip in unseen. Normally those doors were unwatched, but things could be different on this particular night. The police would be swarming around the entire building, and there was also the Vizier's henchmen to consider. The plan could fail before it even begun…
But it's that, or spend the rest of my life married to a man who specializes in the sell of pig fat.
Her mind made up, Christine sat on her bed, staring out her window, waiting for the other members of the household to leave for the evening.
After what felt like an eternity, the sky outside her bedroom window eventually began to change, the blue of the afternoon slowly becoming shot through with the reds and golds of a brilliant sunset before deepening to the royal purple of the evening. The breeze that sighed in through her with was warm and moist, and not before long Christine heard the sound of fireworks in the distance. Somewhere out in the depths of Paris, the Opera House Masque had officially begun.
A sharp rapping on her door pulled Christine out of her reverie.
"Christine." Christine sneered at the sound of her aunt's voice muffled from behind her door. "We are leaving for the Masque now. Rosie will bring you your supper shortly. You are not to leave your room until I retrieve you tomorrow morning, do you understand?"
"Yes, aunt Celeste." Christine replied obediently, her voice betraying no indication that she overheard her aunt speaking of her fate the morning before.
Her aunt left without another word, and several moments later, Christine heard the crack of a whip and the clatter and clamor of a carriage pulling away from the house. The first part of her plan was complete, but Christine made no motion to rise from her bed. She could not even give away the slightest hint that she was leaving until Rosie came in to deliver her supper and leave again. Although Christine loved Rosie and trusted her with her life, she could not bear to tell the old woman she was leaving that night, never to return. If Rosie had begged her to stay, Christine was sure that she would never be able to leave.
After a short while, Christine heard a soft, polite knock at her door, and Rosie emerged a moment later, carrying a tray. Christine thanked her as the old woman set her dinner down on a small table, but her voice cracked as she spoke, and she could not trust herself to say anything more. Rosie turned to look at Christine, then smiled warmly, leaning down to place a loving kiss on the young woman's forehead. Tears sprang to Christine's eyes, and as the old woman shuffled from the room, Christine wondered if the kiss was because Rosie knew that Christine knew that Christine was supposed to leave with the tallow merchant the following morning, or if it was because in all the wisdom of her years, she suspected Christine's true intentions that night.
As soon as the bedroom door was closed, Christine counted to one hundred, then immediately jumped from her bed and began to gather the few belongings she would be bringing with her. She had gathered everything together in a small handbag the night before, bundling it into her traveling cloak and tucking it under her bed, waiting for this moment. Christine retrieved it, unwinding the handbag from the cloak, which she threw over her shoulders despite the promising warmth of the night. Then she opened the handbag, filling it with the bread, wedge of cheese, and apple that had been part of the dinner that Rosie brought to her, setting the food beside the wad of money that constituted of her life's savings. For the time being, Christine would have no choice but to travel in the dress she was wearing now; attempting to bring anything else would only show them down.
With the second phase of her plan complete, Christine forced herself to eat a few spoonfulls of stew – she did not have much of an appetite, but it was important for her to keep her strength up – before moving to the next stage. With her cloak firmly in place and her handbag secured to her wrist, Christine knelt down beside her bed again and pulled out a long, thick rope that consisted of all her linens, bedclothes, and a couple of dresses all knotted together, forming a chain that would hopefully help her descend safely to the ground. Christine took the quilt from her bed, tied it to the end of the rope, then secured it to her bed. She took a moment to make sure that there wasn't anyone around to see her – she would be lowering herself into the garden, but their gardener was no stranger to working into the evenings – then threw the remaining sheet-rope out of window. Without another backwards glance, Christine carefully stepped out onto the windowsill and sat down on it, her legs hanging over the edge and dangling over the green shrubbery below. She swallowed. Suddenly the ground looked much further away than she had previously anticipated. Taking a deep breath, Christine grabbed a hold of the sheet-rope and swung herself out the window, but instead of holding like she expected it to, her sudden weight caused the bed to shift and slide several inches across her bedroom floor. Christine gasped as she rope dropped sharply, and although she tried to hold on she ended up loosing her grip and fell six feet into the bushes below, the thorny shrubs breaking her fall.
It was only the risk of being caught that kept the string of curses from flying from Christine's mouth as she feebly tried to free herself from the bushes' thorny clutches. The brambles bit at her exposed skin and clawed at her clothing until she was able to free herself. Something twisted within her ankle as she landed, sending burning pain shooting up her leg and making her gasp in pain through all the unspoken curses. Tears of embarrassment rather than pain burned Christine's eyes, but she blinked them back; she had no time to waste. The garden was rapidly darkening with the coming night, and even if no one saw her, they certainly would have heard the commotion of her less-than-graceful landing outside the parlor window. Her ankle was throbbing hotly, but thankfully it only felt as though she had twisted it and hadn't caused any worse damage. Once she was convinced it could hold her weight, she made sure that her few possessions were still in tact and opened the garden gate to slip quietly into the streets.
The very air seemed to crackle with suppressed energy although the streets were deathly silent and still, the oppressive late-summer humidity broken only by the thin breeze that rose from the east. Dark storm clouds had gathered on the horizon, bearing down on the city, brining the promise of rain before the night was over. As much as Christine shuddered at the thought of started their journey in it rain, it would probably provide decent cover from anyone trying to follow them. Although the streets seemed unnaturally empty that night, Christine could not help but feel that she was being watched by countless eyes hidden in the narrow gaps between the tightly packed houses, closing in on her. Despite the tension of anxiety building between her shoulders, Christine continued to walk with her head high, eye focused straight ahead, keeping a steady pace despite the throb the reverberated through her ankle, her unseen stalkers continued to follow her all the way to the Opera House.
As Christine rounded the corner to the road that would take her directly to the Opera Populaire, she suddenly found herself stepping into another world, surrounded by a menagerie of strange and wonderful creatures. The plaza before the Opera was full to bursting with people hidden behind a cacophony of masks and costumes, and no two were alike. Christine saw an array of familiar creatures, both real and imaginary, but there was also a vast amount of abstract ones; dreams and ideas and desires whose true meanings were only known by the those adorned in the garments. They moved amongst one another like spirits, disappearing an reappearing before Christine's bewildered eyes, existing in a world and time that was not her own. And Christine moved through them, unnoticed, an insect traveling through a realm inhabited by angels and fae until she reached an empty, undisclosed alley clinging to the side of the Opera House. Having lived in Paris for more than half her life, Christine had always heard about the grandeur and splendor of the annual Opera House's masquerade ball, but not even the most skilled storyteller could have captured the true sights and sounds and unsuppressed beauty of the Masque. A line of glowing lamps encircled the wide plaza, bathing the façade of the Opera House with warm, golden light, and the guests glimmered and sparkled in the light of the full moon. Music enveloped the space, its tempo the very heartbeat of the night, and Christine couldn't help but jump as several fireworks bloomed magnificently in the dark sky, their colors so bright and beautiful that even the darkest shadows were painted in a spectrum of rainbow hues. It was as if the horrific murder had never happened, and it anyone did happen to think of it, they certainly were not going to bring it up now. Everyone was too enjoying themselves to be bothered by dark thoughts.
Christine forced herself to look away from the grand spectacle before her, turning back down the narrow street, which seemed to be horribly dark and quiet compared to the scene taking place only a couple meters away. Christine stepped carefully through the garbage and litter strewn through the alley, careful to not injure her ankle worse than it already was. She had only become partially familiar with all the secret doors of the Opera Populaire either by chance or by accident when she used to seek out Erik, and now she had to sift through her foggy memories to make sure she was going to right way. It seemed as though all the side entrances were only distinguished by uneven perfections in the wall, and there was always the chance that they door she chose lead her to a portion of the Opera House she was completely unfamiliar with. But she also knew that the longer she stayed outdoors, the longer she would stay exposed to unwanted eyes. She would just have to take a risk and hope that luck was on her side.
The pale moonlight that filtered through the gap in the alley betrayed what she was looking for; the vaguest outline of a doorway. She tried to remember where this particular door lead to, but nothing came to mind. Reluctantly, Christine reached into her handbag and withdrew a small brass key. A wave of guilt surged within her as she looked at it, turning the small object over in her hands. It was not just any key, but a skeleton key that lead to anywhere in the entire Opera House, and it had recently been in the possession of Madame Giry until Christine took it from her key ring some days before, just in case she needed it for just this reason. It had not been the proudest moment in her life, and she fully intended to return it to the ballet mistress, complete with letter of apology, as soon as she was done with it and hope that Madame Giry would understand her plight. Feeling in the dark for the keyhole, Christine inserted the key into the slot, and as soon as she heard the bolt on the inside give she opened the door just wide enough to allow herself slip into the shadows of the Opera House.
A single dingy oil lamp was lit in the narrow corridor behind the door, but other than that, Christine was alone with the darkness. The air felt uncharacteristically close and smelt of must and dust and she suddenly felt as though she had entered an ancient tomb rather than the Paris Opera House. The space was so still and quiet that it was difficult to believe that the highest respected event in all of France was taking place just a short distance away. Christine could not help but shiver as she proceeded down the small hallway. The feeling of being watched had followed her indoors.
Fortunately, it did not take Christine long to figure out where she was. After only a few turns down the narrow corridors, she discovered that she was close to the ballerina's dressing rooms, which were, if memory served her correctly, right next to the costume storage. At least she had some luck on her side that night; the door she entered through put her almost exactly where she needed to be. As expected, the costume closest was locked, but with a quick turn of the skeleton key Christine was able to enter unnoticed.
A long oil lamp burned near the door, and when Christine turned up the flame the light shimmered off an arrangement of beads and silk and bejeweled sequences from the costumes of every past performance in the Opera Populaire. The entire room looked as though it had been ransacked, as though the ballerinas had torn it apart looking for all the correct trimmings and accessories for their costumes, but it seemed as though she still had a generous amount of costumes to choose from despite that. Christine knew that she wouldn't be able to move freely about the Opera House if she was not wearing a costume; if she did not look like a guest, then she would be thrown back to the streets before she had the chance to even begin looking for Erik or Nadir. Being in costume also meant that if the Vizier's henchmen were lurking throughout the Masque, then they would not be able to recognize her.
Christine wasted as little time as possible sorting through the sea of outfits, looking for the first to catch her eye. Thankfully, it did not take long. The weak light of the lamp glimmered off a hint of white silk in a wardrobe of darker clothing, and Christine pulled the dress free without even bothering to look at the others. She was not sure which production the dress had been made for, but it was beautifully and expertly made. The material glistened even in the dimmest light, the white silk complimented by the rich copper highlights laced through the dress. The neck, sleeves and hem were trimmed with satin roses of the same copper hue, and attached to the right shoulder was a single white wing, made up of white swan and striped pheasant feathers. It was a dress unlike any Christine had ever seen before, but not only was it was undeniably beautiful, but it also looked to have been made for a person about her size. Her mind made up, Christine gathered u the dress, grabbed a white-feathered mask from a rack, and retreated into the ballerina's dressing rooms to get prepared.
It was not an easy task getting the dress on by herself, and although she got lost in the sea of material on more than one occasion, she was at last able to pull the dress on right, pleased that it fit better than expected. Her hair was going to have to stay down; she had neither the time nor the skill to style it on her own. The best she could do was brush it until it glowed, matching the copper highlights on her dress, reliving it of any tangles and twigs she had acquired from her fall from her bedroom window and arranging the curls carefully around her shoulders. When the mask was in place, Christine took a moment to observe herself in the mirror. The overall result was not bad. One might even consider her beautiful. Regardless of what she did or didn't look like, she at least looked like she belonged at the Masque. No one would question her being there.
Christine left the ballerina's dressing room, and hid her dress, cloak, and handbag in a deeply shadowed, undisclosed coroner, so she might easily retrieve it when she and Erik were ready to make their departure. Taking a deep breath to calm herself, she picked up her skirts and began to make her way to the grand foyer. After only being "employed" at the Opera House for a few weeks, Christine could navigate her was through the backstage areas directly behind the stage fairly well, but any hope of being able to find Erik unnoticed was shattered at the sound of an unfamiliar voice materializing somewhere behind her.
"Oi! What are you doing back here?"
Christine very nearly jumped out of her skin, heart hammering inside her chest, and when she swung around to face the source of the voice, she saw a middle-aged stagehand half-running towards her. "Mademoiselle, what in the name of heaven are you doing back here? The Masque is the other way!" Christine's mouth worked silently for a moment, her nerves too jangled to find her voice. The stagehand smiled kindly at her. "Begging your pardon, I did not mean to startle you. I'm sure you just lost your way, yes? Come with me, mademoiselle. I will take you back to the ball." He removed his cap in a very gentleman-like way and offered his arm to Christine, who had no choice but to take it. She cursed herself, silently. She had not anticipated that the stagehands would be at the Opera House that night. That meant that finding Erik would be that much more difficult.
Christine remained silent as her escort led her through the main auditorium, which stood empty and silent in preparation for the opening gala the following evening. "It is dangerous to be wandering around here by yourself, mademoiselle." The stagehand told her. "There are ghosts stalking these aisles." He indicated towards the grand double-doors that would lead her to the crowded, sparkling foyer. Just before he left, he replaced his cap on his head, tipping it respectfully towards her. "If I am allowed to say so, mademoiselle, you look like an angel. Many a hearts gentlemen here break tonight just by the sight of you." This time, Christine managed to smile at him, offering a word of thanks before turning back to the masquerade.
At first none of the extravagantly dressed attendees noticed Christine's arrival, but as she moved through the crowds she became aware of the increasing amount of attention on her, as though she was Cinderella who had just arrived at the prince's ball. She was grateful for the mask that hid the brilliant blush that covered her face as the young men all bowed to her as she passed, and their female companions who glared jealously behind her back. Her original plan of moving through the Masque unnoticed was rapidly unraveling. The whole foyer seemed to grow uncomfortably quiet as all eyes were drawn to her. A feeling of panic began to well up in her chest as she remembered her aunts and cousins were here as well. What would happen if they discovered she was here? Christine was a hair's breadth away from bolting when suddenly the music started up again as a swinging waltz and everyone returned to their previous engagements, the moment broken in the space of a heartbeat.
Sighing in relief, Christine relaxed and mingled into the crowds, trying to re-think her plan. All of the unwanted attention did nothing for her already tightly wound nerves. A servant dressed in a gold Roman-style toga passed by, carrying a tray of fluted glasses full of sparkling pink Champaign. Christine took one of the glasses gratefully and drained it in a single gulp, welcoming the sweet bite of the alcohol to help clear her mind. She needed another way to get backstage, hopefully without having to go through the auditorium. With the gala opening tomorrow night, she should have known that there would be people working after hours to make the final touches for the production.
Replacing the empty glass on the tray, Christine made the decision that she would just have to be extra careful when looking out for the occasional stagehand; she did not have the time to waste trying to find an alternative route. She highly doubted that Erik would be co-mingling with the crowd. He might have a flair for the extravagant, but he had no love for large groups of people. Convinced that no one was watching her, Christine began to make her way back to the auditorium, but her efforts were quickly blocked when a young man wearing a bull mask materialized from the crowds, standing directly in her path. At first, Christine simply tried to ignore him, attempting to step around him as though he was not there, but he only moved to further bar her way. She sighed, trying to not let her frustration show. She had neither the time nor the patience to play games. "May I help you, monsieur?"
The man bowed to her, but there was nothing chivalrous about the look in his eyes. "I could not help but notice, mademoiselle, that you arrived without a gentleman escort. There, I see that there is no harm in asking your hand… for this dance."
"No, thank you, monsieur." Christine answered, perhaps a little too hastily. "I am actually on my way to meet someone right now, so if you'll excuse me…"
"Well, he can't be much of a gentleman, now, can he, making such a beautiful woman wait all by herself? I can keep you company until he arrives…" He took an advancing step towards her, one hand extended towards her, but before Christine could react another hand shot out of no where and seized the man by the wrist, twisting his arm at an awkward and painful angle.
"The lady said 'no.' I think it's time for you to move on, monsieur."
Christine gasped at the sound of her savior's voice, and when she spun around she found herself staring at a grinning skull mask, its own wearing a striking general's uniform made of blood-red velvet. Golden eyes glowed like embers from the shadowed depths of the mask. Although her elation threatened to overwhelm her, Christine forced herself to remain composed, laying a trembling hand on his arm. 'It's all right, Erik. He was just leaving. Weren't you, monsieur?"
Erik released his hold on the man's wrist, who pulled it back as though it were broken. At first, Christine worried that Erik had injured the man until he disappeared into the crowds without another word.
Despite the situations that forced her to come to the Opera House that evening, Christine could not help but smile brightly at the masked magician. When Erik at last turned to look at her, she found that his eyes were unreadable. He seemed neither surprised that she was there nor upset that she had broken her promise to him. He said not a word, but only offered his hand to her, which she took just as silently. Her heart fluttered like that of an overjoyed schoolgirl as he swept her onto the dance floor, joining seamlessly into the waltz. Once again, Christine felt all eyes in the Masque on her and Erik, and angel dancing with a devil. The skull mask was still chilling in its appearance, but it seemed to make him that much more enigmatic.
"What are you doing here, Christine?" Erik asked her softly, in almost a scolding tone. "I told you to wait for me until Nadir and I were ready to depart."
"I couldn't afford to wait any longer." Christine whispered back, refusing to be treated like a child. "My aunt made arrangements for me to married to a tallow merchant tomorrow morning! If I had continued to wait for you, then we would have been separated forever!"
"I would have found you, Christine. You know that."
"That's not the point! I couldn't bear the thought if going through with it! Erik, I want to leave Paris with you, tonight. I have everything I need here, we can leave any time. Just you, me, Nadir, and Ayesha. We can leave this horrid place forever!"
Erik stopped their dance, and the expression in his eyes turned inward and troubled. Christine felt cold dread begin to gather in her chest. "Erik? What's wrong?"
Erik hesitated a moment, as though he already regretted what it was he needed to say. The dread that Christine felt quickly turned into sickening anxiety. "Christine… I must speak to you. But not here. Follow me." Christine only nodded, allowing Erik to lead her from the dance floor and out of the foyer.
-x-x-x-
Giselle was fuming with red-hot and barely bridled fury as she watched her cousin being led away by the tall man dressed as the red death. The little wench! What in the name of God was she doing? It did not matter that Christine had been wearing a mask and costume when she arrived, Giselle had seen right through it. And it was not so much that Christine had to gall to arrive to the Masque so much as it was all the attention that was lavished upon her when she suddenly appeared, quite literally, out of no where! Giselle had never felt more infuriated in all her life. It was almost enough to crush the crystal glass of Champaign she held in her gloved hand.
"Mademoiselle."
Giselle swung around to face the voice that had just spoken to her, ready to unleash a verbal lashing to it owner simply because he was the first unfortunate enough to cross her path, but when her eyes locked eye with him she stopped cold. The man standing behind her was wearing nondescript dun-colored robes, but the mask he wore was horrific, a grotesque grinning head with three rows of teeth in its wide, grinning mouth and framed by a wild mane of wild, tangled hair. More terrifying than the mask, though, were the eyes behind the mask; hard, cruel, soulless eyes that turned Giselle's blood to ice. "Mademoiselle," the man behind the mask said again in a voice that was surprisingly warm despite his eyes, "what has upset such a beautiful woman such as yourself?"
At first, Giselle had no intention of telling this man anything, but then she felt the most curious sensation in the back of her mind; a strange tickling feeling coaxing the answer from her, a feeling that grew stronger the longer it took her to speak until it became uncomfortable. "Why does everyone pay attention to her?" Giselle snapped, the words pouring forth on their own account. "There's nothing special about her! She's not even pretty! And yet you would have thought that the Queen of England herself made a grand entrance tonight, the way she came strutting in like that!"
"Perhaps, mademoiselle, it is because of the company she keeps?" The stranger ventured softly.
"It's all because of that damned magician! The one she met in Persia! Ever since he appeared she feels as though she can do whatever she wants! You would not believe the way she sasses to me, and then shows up at the Masque to purposely steal all the attention! She's a nobody! It's just not fair!"
"Perhaps then, mademoiselle, I might offer a suggestion to seek a little revenge on your cousin? A little just dessert, as one might call it?"
Something in the back of Giselle's mind told her that she should not trust this man, that he was only full of venom and lies, but the idea of getting back at Christine was too great an opportunity to pass.
"I'm all ears, monsieur."