A/N: LOL- Poor misunderstood Erik! ;-) And now…
LII
.
Christine woke to the gentle trickle of liquid falling into porcelain. Her first hazy thought - that she was beneath the earth in her bedchamber - shattered apart when she opened her eyes to the embroidered pink silk of the chaise and pillow upon which she lay.
Her second thought - she was not alone.
"Erik?" she said hopefully as, still half asleep, she rolled onto her side and looked over her shoulder.
Meg stood near the dressing table with a pitcher in her hands.
"No, it's me. Who's Erik?"
"Did I say Erik?" Christine hedged and feigned an embarrassed little laugh, willing her sluggish mind to rapid attentiveness. "I was only dreaming."
"He must be someone you fancy."
"Why would you say that?" Christine pushed herself up to sit, focusing her attention on a thin stripe of the rug.
"You said his name as if you desperately wished to see him. Why else would you dream of him?"
"Dreams are seldom what you wish them to be, Meg. I have found that many dreams seem very real once you're inside them, but rarely if ever make sense or fit into the normal pattern of life."
Reminded of her passionate dreams of her masked lover, one from which she had just left and had also been sure was real – disappointed to awaken and find it was not – her face heated in embarrassment. Determined to conceal her need of him while in the presence of the all-seeing Meg Giry, she turned her back to the girl, reaching for her wrapper on a nearby chair and drawing it about her bed gown. Swiftly she changed the topic.
"How did you get in here? I'm certain I locked the door last night before retiring."
Meg picked up a set of iron keys on a ring and jangled them in answer then set them back on the dresser. "Maman told me to wake you, and I brought water for you to wash with. It's rather icy, we had another snowfall last night, so I poured a small amount of water into that shallow basin to take some of the chill off. A trick I learned: If you hold it above the candle's flames for a short time, it helps to warm the water so it's not so horridly cold."
"That's kind of you." Christine would give anything for the deliciously heated water of her claw-footed bathtub below ground, the air inside the dressing room also frigid.
Meg smiled in acknowledgement as she lifted the bowl and held it over the flames of the candelabra she had lit. "Morning rehearsal starts in fifteen minutes."
"It does? Good heavens – why didn't you tell me sooner?" The news set a different fire beneath Christine and she pushed away the coverlet and clambered out of bed, first hurrying to the small, private water closet at the far corner of the room. She wondered what if any favors the previous diva had proffered to gain that. Or were all dressing rooms outfitted with the luxury? She hoped the managers, who seemed rather lecherous with how they ogled the dancers, like the stagehands did, expected nothing from her.
"I noticed the woman- La Carlotta- wasn't at rehearsal yesterday," she said as she rejoined Meg. "Did she leave the opera?"
"If only!" Meg gave a disgusted shake of her head. "She had an accident."
"An accident…?"
Christine stopped in her tracks, looking up in shock. She recalled the cavalier manner in which the Phantom had spoken of death in relation to the ousted diva. Though her mind had finally caught up to her heart in knowing him as Erik, Christine could not equate the two as one being, not when she heard of the unwarranted violence that Erik from the past would never have committed under such mild circumstances. He had been angry and bitter, but never to a degree that he would harm a defenseless individual purely to obtain his way or for cruel amusement. For this reason, she still thought of him as The Phantom in the present, no matter that he was Erik from her past.
"Please tell me the Phantom had nothing to do with her accident," Christine said nervously.
"Not this time. She misjudged distance from the carriage to the ground while on an outing and fell. A very bad sprain I've heard. She'll be off her feet and away from the theatre at least through your opening, so you have no need to worry about her giving you a difficult time over the next two weeks."
Christine returned Meg's smile, more relieved that the Phantom had not been the cause of the woman's mishap, and would feel no need to exact his cruel tricks to force her to go.
Not having been told to arrive in costume, Christine went behind the screen to don a day dress of soft merino blue wool and continued their earlier conversation. "Is that the only key to my room?"
"These are Maman's, since she is headmistress over the dormitories and unofficially in charge of what occurs within the theatre, especially since she works for the Phantom and they all know it. But there is another set – the managers also have a ring of them."
Christine stepped from behind the screen. "The managers have a key to my room?"
Meg let out a little laugh. "Of course. They have a key to every door in the building, since they own it. It hangs in their office. But there's no reason to fear – I don't think they've ever even used them. And there's also the skeleton key that opens any door…" She held it up for Christine to see. "No, don't look like that. No one will bother you. I knocked but you didn't answer, and maybe I shouldn't have entered – but I couldn't let you sleep through rehearsal. Most everyone knows this is now your bedchamber and wouldn't dare cross Maman and enter where they're not welcome. She knows you are now wed to the Phantom, so will protect what is his."
Hearing his name linked with hers in union, as if he would still care or want her, brought back the dull ache of again losing him that had settled inside her heart. Not as intense as when she thought him dead, but disturbing all the same. Last night, she had hoped he might end this pervasive silence and come see her. She so despised leaving matters unresolved and wished everything out in the open – but how could she have that if he was just as determined to remain distant and hidden? He knew how she hated unresolved matters and wondered if that was his purpose, to make her punishment even more harsh, though God only knew why she was being punished! Once she returned to the room last night, she had carefully checked the papered walls, finding no cracks for drafts, certain no wind had come through that way, then again quietly talked to the mirror as if he stood on the other side, begging him to come to her, wondering if he had been there and seen her talk to Raoul...
"Oh, dear, I've botched things up horribly, haven't I? You've gone white as a ghost and look as if you're the one with the sprained ankle."
"I didn't sleep well. May I see that key? The one you just showed me."
Meg looked at her oddly, but selected the key and handed the ring over. Never having seen a skeleton key, Christine studied the slim column of iron, noting the top that was usually jagged had been filed away … and strongly resembled the key she had taken at the cave.
Did that key also open other doors? She had been over every inch of the frame within reach and no lock or lever existed on this side of the glass.
But what other entrances led into his dark dungeons? She recalled the door used the night they were wed, leading out to the Rue Scribe, but she had been blindfolded and remembered the sound of stone rasping against stone - twice - signifying secret entrances through which he led her. Using that door would be of no help, since she had no idea where to begin looking for a hidden entryway…
She handed the key back to Meg, uneasy that anyone could enter her locked room, but perhaps she made too much of the issue. This chamber offered far better accommodations than a crowded dormitory, though her true reason for choosing it had nothing to do with all the little comforts and everything to do with a hard pane of reflective glass that acted as a secret door.
If only that door had a lock in which to put a skeleton key!
With time slipping away, she hurriedly splashed her face with the water Meg had brought, no longer icy as to be uncomfortable but still cold.
"You were magnificent at rehearsal," Meg said as Christine brushed her untidy curls. "You truly do have an angel's voice, like he wrote in his note. I even heard one of the girls that was harassing you say to another, 'so that's why he picked her.'" Meg giggled. "Serves them right, they can be so cruel."
Christine glanced at her. "They're not your friends?"
"Not most of them. I don't like when people viciously tease at the expense of another's feelings."
The more she learned about Meg, the more Christine felt reassured that she would make a good friend. But could she trust her as a confidante? She could prove useful as one. Arabella didn't live within these walls and Meg knew things that Arabella couldn't possibly know, things about the Opera Ghost and the layout of the theatre.
As if reading her mind, Meg spoke. "You really are full of surprises. You can sing, when you told everyone you couldn't. You married the Phantom, two months after he secretly stole you away. And you are close friends with our sole patron, who traveled to France to question everyone in theatre when he learned you went missing…"
Christine winced, the curiosity undisguised in Meg's voice.
"We grew up in the same area. My father was his tutor when Raou- that is, when the Vicomte was a boy."
"Really? What did he teach him?"
"The violin." Finished with her hair, Christine set down her brush.
"The Vicomte plays the violin?" Meg asked in disbelief.
"Well, not very well…"
They shared a grin and a giggle.
"We should go before we're late. Maman is very strict about punctuality."
"So was my teacher."
"Your teacher … the Phantom?"
She hesitated in giving Erik's name. "Yes. Meg, there's something I would like your help with tonight, after I return from dinner. That is, if you're free."
"You're leaving the theatre then?"
Christine nodded tersely. "I have a dinner engagement with Arabella de Chagny."
"And the Vicomte?" Meg added in mounting excitement when Christine paused, as if the ballerina had just been introduced to a tidbit of juicy scandal. "Does the Phantom know?" she said in a stage whisper, as if they had an audience.
Christine hoped he was not there to hear.
She clenched the hairbrush tightly, then relaxed her hold and set it down, attempting to look and sound self-assured. "It's nothing, really – a dinner between old friends. And besides, I couldn't find a way out of it."
"As if you should want to! No peasant's bistro for the likes of the Vicomte de Chagny. You will surely dine at one of the finest establishments Paris has to offer." She moved to the door and Christine followed. "Don't tell the others. They're already sick with envy and likely will give you a worse time of it. Wait a moment …" Meg turned, a look of dawning comprehension in her blue eyes. "When you first arrived and the Phantom dropped the note, I asked and you mentioned that you had been to the opera before, with a friend. Was it the Vicomte?"
She had a long-reaching memory, and Christine reluctantly nodded.
Meg issued a light squeal before opening the door. "I knew it. Don't tell them that either, though it would be worth it to see them knocked down a peg or two. But you wouldn't welcome the hostility."
After a lifetime of dealing with Erik's explosive rants and, more recently, the Phantom's dark fits of rage, any vicious barbs the chorus could think up would be an afternoon tea in the park. But she had no plan to announce the news and even toyed with the idea of slinking outdoors to meet the de Chagnys at the foot of the stairs before they could enter the building.
Taking a deep breath, Christine gave one last look toward the full mirror then followed Meg out the door.
She did not come to this theatre, expecting to belong. She had only wished to hide.
The irony that soon she would be center stage and the attraction of every eye in Paris did not fail to escape her, and she could only hope that the masquerade of her mother's name would be enough to shield herself and her dark secret.
x
Nothing untoward occurred during the day's rehearsals, and Christine was thankful, while miserable at the same time. She would have welcomed his deep voice booming from the rafters with his orders for the company – any evidence at all that he was still there. She gladly undertook the long hours of tireless acting, losing herself as another character so she would not have to think of her own wretched life. Not until Madame called an end to each practice and she must then return to being Christine Grendahl once more, a subterfuge in itself. She found it much more difficult to live actual life behind an invisible masque than to perform a role for the stage and wondered how Erik had managed the deception for so many weeks in her presence. Doubtless, he would have continued with the pitiless charade, too, had she not intervened and stopped him.
The renewed burst of resentment she felt at his trickery dulled to nervousness as she realized that soon the de Chagnys would come to collect her.
Surely, now that she knew his true identity, his threat to kill the Vicomte if she so much as entered his presence was an idle one. Another ruse behind which the Phantom hid to torment her. Surely he would not follow through with such an evil, malicious plan?
He no longer seemed to care about her. He had married her and taken her innocence that she freely gave him, only to remove her from his hidden home. That stung the worst – more than his lies and manipulations – that Erik had done that to her – along with the knowledge that if she had just let things stand and chosen to ignore his slip of the endearment – had not recklessly chased after him to confront him and remove his mask – she would be with him at this moment, and in the nights sharing his bed. Of that she was certain.
Damn him. Damn herself. And damn the whole lot of the world!
Furious again, wishing for something to throw, she spotted an ugly pink and white vase, empty of flowers, and hurled it as hard as she could against the wall, just preventing herself from making the mocking glass of reflection her target. As the porcelain shattered into myriad fragments, she imagined each shard a broken piece of her life. How could she ever mend all of what had fallen apart in four years? Was it even possible?
Hardly feeling better for her lapse into fury, she grimly picked up the shards and disposed of them, wincing as she then swept the slivers with a cloth and pricked her index finger. She hissed and squeezed her fingertip until a small bead of blood appeared. Staring at the injury took her back to her badly cut finger, and the Phantom – no, Erik – he had been Erik then, not the aloof, cold, uncaring Phantom – bandaging her wound and showing concern. He had shown concern, and not just because he guarded her welfare as his singer.
He had called her his Little Angel.
He had kissed her and made love to her, showing tender concern then too … no matter that for the majority of her stay he professed cold disinterest in all but her voice.
Some part of him must care!
So what had gone so terribly wrong…?
Disgusted with allowing herself to travel down the same path, over and over, certain her mind would soon bear deep ruts from the wheels of hopeless thought, she rummaged through the trunk Erik left that held all her gowns, not even one of them missing to offer a fragment of hope that she might return to his home. Sighing, she chose a burgundy velvet trimmed in black lace, reflecting her current mood, dark and austere.
A soft knock at the door startled her as she applied heavy stage powder beneath her eyes in an attempt to hide the dark circles from little sleep.
"Yes?" she called out and set down the pouf, scowling at her image, her appearance only made worse. Irritated with her heart for its involuntary leap of expectation – the Phantom of the Opera would never enter by such ordinary means as a door when he could use a secret mirror – she turned on the chair to greet her guest.
Arabella breezed in looking stylish in a dark blue brocade silk that deepened the gray of her irises. Though not apparent to strangers who only offered a glimpse to eyes that were a trifle small, with a nose somewhat large for her face – she possessed a loveliness that exuded from the warmth of her heart and made up for any flaws that mankind considered imperfect. Her best physical assets were without doubt, a creamy complexion free of blemish and a striking figure.
"Is it time, already?" Christine asked, her heart giving another erratic thump, this time from nerves, that her rash plan to slip outdoors to meet the de Chagnys was now for naught.
"We came early. Raoul has business with the managers, and I thought I would come to offer aid or cheer … or both," Arabella said with a sympathetic smile as Christine took a wet cloth and wiped the dry white pigment from beneath her eyes. Now pink streaks colored her skin, her appearance worse than before she began, and she sighed. Lovely.
"I don't know how to use such trimmings and normally wouldn't bother, but I don't wish for Raoul to see any sign of distress and become suspicious."
"You poor dear. Allow me. Did you get any sleep at all?"
"Some … not much," Christine amended as Arabella carefully patted the dampness from beneath her eyes left by the cloth with a dry corner of the material.
Arabella then carefully put a fraction of the powder Christine had used on the pouf and ordered her to close her eyes. Christine did so, the tickle against her skin and the scent of the pigment making her want to sneeze. Meg had said that Christine would be responsible for applying her own stage makeup for each performance, coloring her cheeks and eyelids and using kohl to darken the lashes or to rim the eyes. It all seemed pointless, though Meg told her it was essential due to the bright stage lighting achieved with strong flames and mirrors and other crafty devices that bled a person of all color. That idea seemed more fitting, since she was married to a ghost and lately felt like one, but she supposed if she must wear the blasted bits of colored artifices she would need practice using them, if she didn't want to end up looking like a clown.
"You're very quiet," she said after some time passed once Arabella set down the pouf and Christine began brushing her hair. "Something troubles you?"
"As a matter of fact, yes," Arabella admitted quietly. "I don't know how to begin, but I need to tell you before Raoul joins us."
"Is this what you wanted to tell me yesterday?" Christine inspected Arabella's handiwork, pleased with the results. In the reflection of the glass she noticed her friend give a tight nod and take a few steps away.
"There is something that happened. In England. Some time ago, actually …"
After a pregnant pause, Christine decided to help her along. "I think I know," she said softly.
Arabella turned her head to look at her, a hint of dread in her eyes. "You do?"
"It's been quite obvious for some time."
"It has?"
"You love Raoul."
"What?" The shock of Arabella's tone denied it, though the instant high color flushing her cheeks proved the statement was far from false. "Don't be ridiculous."
"Why is it ridiculous? I've seen the way you look at him when he enters a room. I saw it in England." Christine smiled in approval. "You two are well suited to each other." And that would relieve her of one huge niggling difficulty!
"We're cousins!"
"And? Tell me cousins don't fall in love and marry! Our own Queen Victoria and Prince Albert fell in love, married, and had nine children – even the de Chagny history of your ancestors which you once recited to me had first cousins who married. So you said."
Arabella shook her head. "It's not that. I'm well aware it's common."
"Well then?"
"He sees me only as his cousin. Nothing more."
"But you don't see him that way, do you?"
"This conversation is utterly absurd." Arabella paced to and fro in tense steps, fidgeting with her hands at her waist. "You certainly do not lack for a vivid imagination, Christine. The thought of us together is preposterous. Why, even before we left England, he mentioned that it was time to find me a husband, past time actually."
"Fine then. Forget I mentioned it." Christine swiveled on her chair to tie dual sections of curls behind her head with a black ribbon. "But for someone who is so calm and composed in much more troubling situations than this one, you are reacting rather frenzied to a statement you say is false."
Arabella stopped pacing and met Christine's steady eyes in the mirror as she finished tying the ribbon. Christine dropped her arms to her sides in contrition.
"I don't mean to upset you. You've been kind to me these past four years, accepting me into your home when I was nothing but a troublemaker and a trespasser."
"You were young and full of spirit. I never held those days against you. You've changed."
Christine nodded distantly, not willing to switch the topic. "But Arabella, friendship works both ways. I can also be discreet and offer a listening ear if needed."
Arabella gave a tight nod and approving smile. "You really have changed. You've become so strong after all you've endured and are still enduring ..."
Christine thought about that. During her final two years at The Heights her mettle had needed to grow threads of steel, but any return of true strength of spirit she owed to Erik, to the Phantom. He had terrorized her and angered her, tried her and tested her - until she had no choice but to bear the weight of their emotional battles and fight back, or collapse and re-enter her world of darkness, not that she hadn't attempted it. But he had always been there to pull her out before she could sink too deep, to provide safety, even comfort, before he then would challenge her anew.
She still believed she no longer possessed all of her reason, if she ever had known absolute sanity, but that made sense since Erik was her soul mate, and he must be completely mad.
A knock at the door was followed by Raoul's voice, jarring her from the cynical thought.
"Ladies? May I enter?"
"Of course," Christine called out and rose from her dressing table somewhat nervously.
Arabella turned, putting her back to the door. Raoul entered, his smile wide as he strode toward Christine. "You look divine." He took her hand and kissed it in greeting. "Arabella…is everything alright?"
Arabella turned and offered him a reassuring smile. "Yes, of course. What could be the matter?"
Christine wondered if she was the only one to notice the nervous pitch a semi-tone higher in Arabella's voice. Perhaps she only recognized it because of her intense vocal training with her teacher and the daily exercise of her musical scales. Raoul seemed not to notice a thing.
Hurriedly Christine fetched her wrap. "We should go."
He seemed taken aback by her abrupt desire to leave, but helped her into her dark blue cloak edged in black fur that had also been in the trousseau Erik had given her.
Struggling not to glance even once in the mirror, Christine left with her escorts.
As assured as she had earlier been that Erik would not enact his threat against the Vicomte, now she was no longer certain. He had changed a great deal in four years, had always been morose, but now something dark and twisted propelled him, haunting his soul. However, one thing had not changed – he still despised the Vicomte with an unholy fury, considering him the worst of his enemies. Perhaps if they could quietly and quickly go, the unapproachable Phantom need never know of her dinner plans or her unwilling defiance against him.
x
Once inside the carriage, emblazoned with the de Chagny crest on its door, Raoul faced Christine, his expression somber.
"Tell me, now that we are away from the theatre and safe from being overheard, have you been threatened by this man they call the Opera Ghost? Did he command your silence and were you too frightened to tell what really occurred since you've been away? Did he take you, as they have said? Harm you? Do not be frightened to speak, Christine. He is nowhere near, but we are here to help, in any manner necessary."
The part of her heart always loyal to Erik was exasperated with the Vicomte's tenacity, at the same time the part so newly spurned by the Phantom felt buoyed by Raoul's concern. But never would she endanger either man and firmly she shook her head.
"No, Raoul, it is as I have told you. No one kept me against my will. I was hidden away and protected. Once I was ready to return, the danger had passed – the man I saw from Gimmerton had left – and I came back to take my place with the troupe."
"What man?"
"Someone I remember visiting The Heights. Someone who visited Henri."
"Arabella said it was a friend of your father's."
Troubled that he had caught her so easily in the lie, she shook her head in frustration.
"Perhaps he was both. I'd seen him before and my father and Henri lived in the same place, as you well know. I didn't ask his reasons for being there, only that I recognized him."
"It's alright, Christine," Arabella soothed. "I'm sure Raoul didn't mean to interrogate you."
He looked surprised at the idea then hurt that Arabella would say it. "Of course not! My father left me in charge of the opera house, and I only wish to get to the bottom of this frightful matter. I was concerned that he might be endangering you but you were too apprehensive to say so when he could have been nearby to hear."
"Well, he's not, I'm in no physical danger – save for falling on my face and making a complete fool of myself in front of an audience – so may we please change the subject?"
Arabella reached out to clasp her hand in encouragement. "You'll be a success, I'm sure of it. Your voice could mesmerize the angels."
There was only one Angel she cared about pleasing. A dark brooding one, gifted with Music…
Realizing both cousins carefully watched her, Christine cast off the shadow that had crept in to cover her soul and managed a wan smile. "Thank you for your faith in me. I shall do my best."
For the remainder of the carriage ride, Arabella and Raoul both encouraged her then informed her of all that occurred in England since her escape, including news of Inspector Leverton who asked such intrusive questions. Christine had been right about Elizabeth's father and was grateful that she was far from his sights.
x
"I think you ladies will enjoy the excellent cuisine that the Le Grand Véfour offers their clientele," Raoul said as he escorted them through the tall white Greco colonnades that surrounded most of the building and into the posh restaurant nestled inside, almost hidden.
He was glad to get Christine away from the opera house for however long was possible and eventually hoped to convince her to move into the hotel.
A doorman tilted the brim of his hat in deferential greeting and opened the carved door.
Christine looked at Raoul in confusion. "But is this not the Café de Chartres? That is the name above the entrance.
"It now goes under the name of the current owner. It is rather odd that they never removed the former sign."
Christine thought that the restaurant seemed fitting for one of her caliber, since she too displayed herself to the world as a different person and daily lived in two masquerades – one with the public, who knew her only as Christine Grendahl, born in Sweden, and one in secret as the wife of the elusive Phantom of the Opera who she knew better than most and at the same time felt as if she did not know at all.
The maitre de seated them near a corner of the restaurant at a table with chairs upholstered in red velvet. The entire restaurant had windows all around, with square pillars flanking them. Each pillar displayed an elaborate fresco of oil paintings of ancient Rome, featuring colorful images of graceful women in flowing tunics with large tiered baskets of fruit, flowers, and plants they held atop their heads and smaller pictures of flowers, scenery, and scrolls decorating the remainder. These square colonnades repeated themselves, also sectioning off areas of the restaurant. Lustrous gold rimmed the area, the ceiling also an elaborate work of art, and myriad golden chandeliers hung from above.
Christine had visited many a posh establishment while in the company of the de Chagnys, especially while they were on holiday, so was not overwhelmed by the lavishness of the grand eatery. As they were seated, her eye was drawn to the nearest colonnade. Below the dark-haired woman displaying her bared back to them, a brilliant painting of a dormant volcano and the ancient community beneath reminded her of paintings she had seen of Pompeii during her travels. Little did those unwary citizens know that without warning the mound of earth looming in the background would explode, raining a fountain of molten lava on their heads.
The scenario reminded her of Erik, looming over the theatre in the background as the Opera Ghost known and feared, a threat to all in his vicinity who did not do as he wished. He too could go into volcanic rages…and the dark-haired woman in the spotlight was reminiscent of his star, displaying to all who lived there the fruit of her labors…
She rubbed her forehead in weary disgust. Arabella was right, her imagination was far too fanciful. But the attempt to forget that part of her life for at least the span of a meal was made all the more difficult since Raoul seemed just as adamant to reintroduce the topic of the Phantom. He shared his news halfway through the third course.
"I want to reassure you both that all is being done to catch the despicable madman who has made it his life's mission to terrorize those at the opera. I received the name of a man, a historian, who has an old map of Paris."
Arabella cast a cautionary glance toward Christine who had set down her bite of fowl, uneaten, and clutched the tablecloth at her lap.
"- Raoul, perhaps now is not the time."
"- What good would a map do?"
Raoul looked at each of the women who spoke at once, then directed his attention back to Christine and answered her.
"There is an underground cave beneath the city, with passageways I have heard that lead back to the time of the Gauls. That must be where the scoundrel is hiding. Perhaps he found a hidden entrance inside or even outside the opera house… "
The more he spoke of Erik's search and imminent capture, the more queasy she became, unable to finish her confit of duck and sautéed potatoes. Once dessert was served, she barely touched her torte. The conversation had shifted to mundane details of the workings behind an opera but her thoughts remained in the trap of all Raoul had revealed.
He would kill him if he must, so he had said.
Both men would kill each other…
To tell Raoul the truth of the identity of his villainous Ghost, even if she dared, would make no difference. He wished to rid the opera house of him, like unwanted vermin. Many in their remote community of Haworth had felt the same about Erik the gypsy servant. Perhaps Raoul did as well though he never admitted to such a foul notion …
"Christine, are you feeling ill?"
She was, actually, and blotted her napkin to her lips. "I suppose I'm not accustomed to all this rich food."
"Do you wish to go?"
"No, please," she said, "finish your desserts."
She lifted her eyes to the window, her breath freezing in her throat along with her heart which surely had ceased to beat.
In the darkness partly concealed by a tall hedge and standing at the outside fringes of the colonnade, she barely discerned the shadowy outline of a man in a dark cloak. Beneath his broad-brimmed hat she glimpsed a flash of white.
He wears a long cloak and a black mask," Meg had said, "like a bandit, hiding his identity, though Winnie said it's white and covers only half his face.
Dear God…
Swiftly she rose from her chair.
"Christine?" Raoul and Arabella asked in concern.
"Forgive me. I-I need to excuse myself for a moment."
"Of course," Raoul said in understanding.
She turned before Arabella could offer to escort her to the lavatory. Once out of their sight, she hurried to the nearest exit door.
xXx
