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. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.
Chapter 33
She needed him!
No woman had ever said that to him. No person had ever said it, actually.
He had been watching her class again. It was amazing he actually found time for music and his other latest hobbies with the amount of attention he focussed on her. Still, if being in her presence so much – whether she knew about it or not – was the price he had to pay for being an angel, then he would bear it as best he could.
He had noted that the boy was there again. And that he had ignored her. Again. How anyone, especially a man, could ignore her was something he did not understand. He was glad of it though, because it meant he did not have a rival. And yet he did, for each day that she was ignored, Christine became more downhearted, until he brought her back to music. At least he knew he could comfort her, and that she welcomed him that way. It was something.
He watched with pride as she had answered Carlotta's question about the orchestra. How was it that a girl ignorant of everything except her own 'talent' had ever gotten into the Ravelle? It's not as if her mother was anything special – at least not outside of a zoo. The answer was not something he had taught her, but he took pride in it all the same; for he had nurtured her love of music back to health, which must have contributed to it.
When the boy had joined in, he had seen her head snap to attention as a violinist was mentioned. Had he finally deigned to remember her after all this time? When Christine answered, he found his admiration for her father increasing. Had she decided to acknowledge who she really was?
When he heard Carlotta's remark, he had been reaching for the sandbag poised directly above her head when she was knocked to the ground. Christine had struck her! He had not thought her capable, but he was pleasantly surprised by the revelation. Were it not for the fact he had yet to manifest himself beyond notes and his usual hints, he would have thought she was paying homage to him with the voice she then used. She really was his protégé.
Curse Gardiner! He was actually defending the harpy? If he let Christine walk out of Ravelle, there wouldn't be Hell to pay: they'd have him to deal with.
He listened as she explained herself, wanting to weep as he heard the pain with which she spoke. No wonder she had lashed out in such anger. He had not heard her voice so thick with grief since her conversation with Little Giry about the Angel of Music, and other things. He would deal with Miss Guidacelli and the other fools later. He made his way over the rigging and into the tunnels, knowing the path she usually took and hoping to find her. He did.
She was with the boy.
He looked as though he was trying to cheer her up, and was failing miserably. So she had considered his words. Could it be he had a greater hold over her than the one whose friendship she had so cherished?
He could have leapt for joy when she said she had a voice lesson. She was going to him! In her time of anguish, she was reaching out to him. Not that ignorant boy.
The boy who grabbed her arm. She flinched. He had hurt her, and still he persisted.
He had not felt such rage towards anyone in a very, very long time. And the last time had resulted in a visit to a cemetery. The boy dared to ignore HIS Christine, then vex her and presume to share in her music. If those insults weren't bad enough, he even touched her and hurt her!
Someone else to deal with later. Christine didn't even look at him again as she made her way over to the theatre. That she ran was of little matter. His tunnels were a more effective short cut, and he managed to have the door open in plenty of time for her. He waited for her to appear on stage. When she did, he did not wait for her to address him.
She needed him!
She needed him. And he was confined to this wretched deceit. As he watched her convulsing with anger, her sobs wracking her body much the way they had during her earlier coughing fit, he longed to reach out and hold her. He knew she needed as much, and he could not give it.
There had to be a way to end this charade. To end it, so that he could still keep her. The current situation just wasn't enough – for either of them.
Words would not comfort her, and he neither knew nor had time for platitudes. He comforted her in the only way he could. He gave her music. He opened his mouth and allowed a wordless melody to pour out.
He sang to her without accompaniment, for there was none that she had responded to so well as his own voice. He poured into his song every comfort that he wished he could give, every understanding that he had of loss, of hurt and solitude.
He sang from his heart, and it was what was stored there that eventually calmed her. She knew what that kind of music sounded like, and it was what she needed. She didn't care who her angel was, only that he was hers.
Eventually, she stopped sobbing, her breathing evened out and she stilled. Only when he was satisfied that this was the end did he allow his music to cease. He was shocked when the figure in black stepped out of the shadows. He watched as it moved over to his Christine and kneel down.
"She is sleeping. You can come out now."
Madame Giry knew when he had disappeared from his box and quickly fixed Christine's make-up. Whatever had been happening between the two, she was fairly certain that her daughter's face had never been revealed.
"I heard about what happened." She said quietly when she felt the other shadow near her. "I did not expect her to come here though. You have been teaching her?"
"Yes."
"How long?"
"A few weeks. She sheltered here from the rain one night."
"I had wondered."
"You do not object." He said, surprised. It was not a question. Had there been objections, he would not have been able to get a word in. The ballet mistress leaned on her cane as she stood.
"She is happy. I have not been able to say that for months. She has music in her life again, and you are the one who has given it to her. Why would I object?" He did not answer. She became worried. "How are you managing to give her lessons?"
"She believes that I am the Angel of Music." He knew it was pointless to lie to her. Her hand flew to her mouth.
"How could you know of that?"
"I heard her telling your daughter of him. It is the only way I could give her lessons without frightening her. Do you have any idea what her voice could be, Antoinette? Were she to give herself over to the teachers here, she would be good, yes; but with my help she could achieve a greatness the likes of which we have never seen."
Christine stirred a little. He jumped back into the shadows out of habit. Antoinette checked her.
"She is still sleeping soundly. How long was she crying like that?"
"About an hour. I'm not certain." He replied; stepping back into what light there was.
"Then she will not be waking by herself any time soon. She should be taken back to the house." She replied, looking at him meaningfully.
Was he actually getting his wish? Slowly, he reached down and carefully took her in his arms before lifting her. He held her as though she was made of glass. It wasn't far off, for he would have done nothing to risk waking her at this point; he was content simply to hold her. He had not been allowed to the last time he and Antoinette had found her lying on the floor. She had insisted on calling Meg and the doctor, otherwise there would have been too many questions. This time though, there was no place for that. Here she was in his arms, her head cradled against his shoulder.
"No one has seen her coming here?" Madame Giry asked, reaching for her daughter's bag.
"Not for our lessons. I do not know if she was seen today." He replied, staring down at Christine, drinking in the sight of her.
"Then we must find another way. I think Buquet might have seen her." His head snapped up. Buquet was far too curious and vocal about him as it was. If he could connect Christine to him, she would not get any peace. And Buquet was the sort of person he would not trust with any girl, least of all his Christine.
"Come." Giry knew of this tunnel anyway, even though this would be the first time she would actually see inside it.
The torches were blazing, thankfully, as they entered. Even so, the air inside was noticeably cooler than in the theatre, and it had been a relatively warm day. Christine shifted in his arms so that she was curled up even closer to him, her hand wrapping itself in the front of his jacket. Had she woken up, she would found his heart in her hand – in more ways than one. It was all he could do to keep one foot moving in front of the other. He didn't want this to end. He was overwhelmed with the scent of roses and something else that he could only describe as Christine. He had a feeling it would stay with him, even when the scent had ceased to linger.
All too soon, he found himself facing the door underneath the stairs. He allowed Madame Giry to pass before him and open it. Though she didn't know the tunnel, she knew that much at least. She led him up to Christine's bedroom where he gently – and even more slowly – laid her on the bed. Antoinette had drawn back the covers, but without thought, he was the one who drew them over the sleeping girl. She shifted a little, unconsciously making herself comfortable. He softly pushed a strand of hair back from her face.
"Angel." She breathed.
His hand hovered over her face in a caress he did not dare give. Until he felt a hand on his arm. He straightened up and silently moved out of the room. Antoinette placed a kiss on Christine's forehead before leaving likewise.
She managed to catch him just before he disappeared back into the tunnel.
"She is not just a student to you, is she?" She called to his back. He did not answer.
"If you do anything to hurt her, I promise you will wish you had never met either of us." He looked down at the petite woman. She was not trying to insult him, but as a mother, there was a fierceness in her eyes that could rival his own.
"I told you I would watch over her. I promised her that I would keep her safe." They looked at each other. He knew that wasn't what she was speaking of, just as she understood the full meaning behind what he wasn't saying.
"Do not hide this from me again."
He retreated into the shadows.