Author's Note: Here's today's chapter as promised. If we hit the next review quota, I'm afraid the double update will have to be tomorrow - I need sleep! Anyway, thanks again, and 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. 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 34
Christine awoke to the sun creeping in through her bedroom window. It was too low in the sky for it to be time to get up. Still, she was awake now. She paused as she got out of bed. She'd fallen asleep crying on the stage. How had she gotten back here? She remembered singing – her angel had been there, comforting her. And then she had cried herself to sleep.
She remembered . . . Had Mother Giry been there? Then she was being carried. It had been cold. She had been wrapped in something warm and solid . . .
Had her angel carried her? Had he been here in her room? That would explain the unfamiliar scent that was in the air. He'd said he would look after her. So he was a man after all. Did he know Mother then? She was sure they'd both been there. Did that mean she knew? That she approved?
Christine smiled at the thought. She didn't need the true Angel of Music. She had her own.
As she made her way down the stairs, the rest of yesterday's events returned to her. She had actually slapped Carlotta! She didn't know whether to be jubilant or mortified. She'd be lucky if she got away with being suspended. But she didn't regret why she'd done it: no one insulted her family and got away with it.
She'd brushed off Raoul! All those times she'd wished he'd look her way and acknowledge her; the one time he actually did and she'd barely acknowledged him . . . Which was more than he'd managed in all this time. He hadn't kept in touch like he'd promised. Although his family was very important, and the older he got, the more pressure he'd have on him, and the family of a poor violinist might not be considered fit company- Stop it! Whatever the reason, he hadn't kept in touch. She was different now, and would have been difficult to recognise, but when he had, he'd at least tried to talk to her. He'd even remembered her pet name. Her childhood pet name.
But that part of her was gone now. So why did she still cling to it so desperately? Because otherwise it'd be like losing them all over again.
She found herself outside the door tucked away in one of the back corners of the house on the ground floor. She'd defended them. People knew whose daughter she was now – well, they knew half the story. And yet in keeping them shut behind this door, she'd brushed them away even more effectively than she had with Raoul.
You will find the strength, child. You love your father.
It hadn't been said with a past tense. She loved him still – loved both of them still. She went to her bag that was hung in the hall and drew out her set of keys. Strange how this one room had its own key which wouldn't work anywhere else. She unlocked the door and, taking a breath to steady her nerves; she put her hand on the handle and opened it.
The boxes were piled neatly against the far wall where she had left them. There were a couple of windows, this being in the corner of the house, but the curtains were still firmly closed. She looked around the room. Other than several pieces of furniture and a wall hanging that had been covered with dust sheets, there was nothing in the room. It had remained untouched.
She began by removing the dust sheets. There was a bureau, a few chairs and a table, and a bookcase. The covering on the wall revealed a half-length gold ornate mirror – the only one she had ever found in the house. The furniture was beautiful – in need of a polish, but beautiful nevertheless. It looked like quite an old style – she couldn't guess which – and the décor complemented it beautifully. Whatever it was, she loved it, and she couldn't believe she had let it go unappreciated for so long.
Then again, it wasn't just the furniture she could say that about.
She went back to the kitchen and took out her cleaning supplies. She spent the next hour scrubbing and polishing everything in that room that wasn't a box, getting it ready. Once that was done, she put her cleaning supplies back in the hall, and reached for the first box.
She opened it and saw her mother staring back at her.
Tears welled up at the sight of the woman who she had lost when she was only six years old. She didn't have many of her own memories of her, but the ones she had, she'd fought to keep all these years. Her father had made sure she wasn't forgotten. Half the stories he'd told her had been tales of the north, or of the Angel of Music – mostly the latter; the other half had been about her mother. He'd not stopped telling her stories, even as she grew older. She still treasured each one. They gave her hope for the future and reminded her of her past, and her parents. Both of them.
She took out the programme carefully. It was from one of her earlier concerts, before she'd met Papa. She looked so radiant and beautiful. She'd belonged on that stage.
"Hi, Mama. Sorry it's been a while. I've been a bit daft lately, as you'd say. But I'm working on remedying that." Christine said softly as she found a place for the programme to rest. She took out everything that was in the boxes, laughing and crying alternately at the memories the various bits and pieces all evoked.
Eventually, she began putting things away properly. The posters, she put on the walls. The programmes, she displayed one copy of each on the table and the bookshelves. The rest were placed on a shelf, along with everything else. The photographs, she placed in a neat pile, where they would wait until they'd found their way into a photo album.
A few hours after she'd begun, she looked around the room. It was probably originally meant to be a very elegant room. Now, it rivalled Gardiner's office without much effort. The room was covered in anything and everything that had been made about Katie O'Neill and Charles Daaë. From memorabilia of shows and performances, to newspaper clippings and private photographs, it was all there. Everything that Christine had from her parents' careers, covered every available space in that room – without looking too cluttered.
Now, it felt like home. Now they were all back under the same roof.
She wiped away a stray tear again as the phone rang.
"Hello? Yes, Mother. What? They're seriously suggesting that? Alright, I'll be there in about fifteen minutes. I need to get dressed first. Yes, I'll hurry." Christine answered her side of the dialogue rather urgently. She took one last look around the room before locking the door and hurrying to get ready. It looked like today could be a bit interesting.
He had been listening for several hours, waiting for when she awoke; waiting for some indication that she was alright, that she was at least not as anxious as she had been yesterday. This girl would be the death of him, he was sure. Still, there had to be worse ways to go.
He eventually heard her footsteps descending and was instantly alert. He checked his pocket-watch: she was up at least two hours earlier than usual. Was this good or bad? Her tread was no heavier than usual. At least she could not be too despondent. She didn't head to the kitchen. Instead she made her way round to the other side of the house. Where was she going? He didn't hear her return, so he risked stepping out. He still knew enough hiding places in this house to avoid being seen, no matter where she was.
She was in the Louis-Philippe room. It was home to a few of the things he had 'acquired' as whims, things which wouldn't for one reason or another fit in his lair. The things in this room he had covered, because they were mostly reminders of times he would rather forget. And she was in there, removing the coverings! She looked around the room in admiration. He grudgingly admitted that the room did possess a certain charm if it was being viewed for the first time.
He jumped back into the shadows as she headed out again. She was not gone long, and when she did return . . . would this girl never cease to unsettle him?
She cleaned the entire room, and then she returned for those boxes that she'd discarded in there. No, not discarded. She opened them with too much care for that. The contents appeared to upset her. He soon understood why.
"Hi, Ma. Sorry it's been a while. I've been a bit daft lately, as you'd say. But I'm working on remedying that."
He had to strain to hear her words, they were said so gently. It was just the sort of thing she would have said. She'd even managed the soft accent and intonation perfectly. Had he been right? She took out what looked like a programme, although he couldn't see it clearly from where he was stood.
He watched in open-mouthed astonishment as she opened box after box and filled his room with her own memories. When she was done, the room displayed signs of the path of her father's career.
And everywhere else he looked, he saw Katie.
She'd said 'Ma' as she'd looked at the programme. She was the daughter of Charles Daaë. And she was the child of Katie O'Neill.
It all made sense. The resemblance she bore, the way she knew the music and performed it the same way she had. She had written that her mother's name was Catherine Daaë. Katie had never gone by that name outside of the theatre, she had told him as much. She said that her stage name was strictly for the world of the stage, and that she had another name for everyday use. He'd never found out of course, he didn't belong to that world.
When she'd left twenty years ago, it had been the worst betrayal he had ever known. But in spite of his coldness to her when she'd told him, she'd still left him with a promise. That her child would find him, just as she had; that if she had anything to do with it, her child would save him, just as she had tried to.
By her own words, her child belonged to him.
As Christine hurried away to the Ravelle, he watched her, seeing her with new eyes.
"Thank you, Katie."