Author's note: And now we take the journey with the Phantom and Christine to a world below the Opéra – to the Phantom's lair! What will we find there? You will soon know.
Disclaimer: They're not mine, but I can kidnap them, or at least try to. Who around here hasn't?
Chapter Five –
Le Fantôme de l'Opéra
Christine continues the narrative…
The passage was completely constructed from stone: its floor was cool and hard beneath my embroidered slippers. Here and there on the walls were golden, low-lit torches that barely afforded any light. Instead, most of the passage was in darkness and I couldn't help but wonder how my mysterious guide was seeing to lead us onwards. The Phantom took me through the passageway and we came out onto an iron walkway that was built over an endless, black space below. I listened carefully and realized that there was another sound in the darkness other than our breathing and footsteps…
There was water somewhere far below us.
Suddenly, I shivered, remembering the legends of the icy, underground lake and labyrinth far beneath the theater's surface. We were now in the underground world that light had scarcely touched since the building of the Opéra Populaire—
The lair of the Phantom.
In sleep he sang to me, in dreams he came…that voice which calls to me and speaks my name… And do I dream again? For now I find the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside my mind…
We stepped off of the walkway and were once more standing on solid ground. He led me across a small, open space and my eyes, finally becoming adjusted to the darkness, were able to discern a long, blank space ahead of us. It was still dark, but he was carrying a lantern that I hadn't noticed before. Perhaps it was because he had been holding it in front of him the entire time. But why…?
Sing once again with me our strange duet… My power over you grows stronger yet…You'll give your love to me, for love is blind… The Phantom of the Opera is there – inside your mind…
We stood upon a dock of some sort: that much I could see, and at the end of it was tethered a boat, shaped like one of the gondolas of Venice. It rested in the misty waters of the lake and glimmering, star-like candles floated around it.
Those who have seen your face draw back in fear… I am the mask you wear…
It's me they hear…
Your spirit and my voice, in one combined: the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside your mind…
The Phantom stepped into the boat and helped me in. I sank down onto the mound of cushions that were layered in the stern, all the while gazing at him. He then set the lantern onto a hook at the front of the boat and picked up a pole that lay on the stone dock. Without a moment's hesitation, he pushed off from the dock and began to guide us through the waters of the lake, as if he had done the same thing all of his life.
Perhaps he has.
I shuddered as soon as the thought had entered my mind and shook my head slowly. It was too much to think of such a horrible possibility. I still had yet to see his face. Then I began to wonder why everything was so dark and blackened – certainly it would have been much easier for him to move around in the place if he could see where he was going. But maybe there was a reason for it.
There is something that he doesn't want you to see…
The lake was vast and misty, its surface covered by a strange, swirling mist. The candles that floated in it and the lantern's dim rays were the only things that gave off any light, but I could distinctly make out the shapes of twisted, black iron statues half-sunken into the water. They seemed to jut out like the mangled hands of drowning souls, begging for rescue. Terrified by the sight, I quickly looked away, towards the Phantom. Seeing that he was there, looming above me like a living, protective shadow at the other end of the boat, reassured me. He would guard me. He would keep me safe and guide me through this strange, dark world that we had now entered.
His world.
In all your fantasies, you always knew that man and mystery…
…Were both in you…
And in this labyrinth, where night is blind, the Phantom of the Opera is there – inside your mind…
He's there, the Phantom of the Opera…
Finally, after what seemed an eternity of traveling, I saw a faint glow of light ahead of us and looked to see what it was. A gasp of both wonder and fear escaped my breast when I caught sight of the jagged outlines of a huge, black iron portcullis that was rising out of the water, dripping.
Beyond it was a space that resembled a large room.
In front of the portcullis, however, was a long set of steps made from solid stone. The Phantom easily guided the boat to those steps and had jumped out onto them before I had even had a chance to realize what was happening. He secured the boat to a pole that stood on the edge of the very last step: the point where it met the water nearly obscured by the mist that wreathed its surface. And then he held out a hand to me.
I stood and suddenly, he lifted me into his arms: easily, as if I weighed no more than a feather, and carried me into the room before us. Gazing towards the place where I knew his face would be, I twined my arms around his neck, barely aware of the slight creaking sound that told me that the portcullis was closing behind us. Then, he set me down and, after what seemed an interminable silence, he spoke.
"Welcome to my home, Christine."
Until that point of time, I had been unable, let alone unwilling, to speak, but now I felt words coming to me – thousands and thousands of words.
"Angel?" I asked.
He nodded, the movement barely perceptible from within the darkness.
"The same, mon petite."
His use of the name that he had given me calmed my uneasy, troubled spirits a little and I felt braver as he continued, "It's all right. You mustn't be afraid."
You mustn't be afraid.
The words echoed in my mind and gave me courage to finally speak. I couldn't think of anything to say, however; or rather, I couldn't think of anything to say that would be adequate to the scenario that had now fallen before me. The air between us was silent, and yet I knew that he was standing there, somewhere in the darkness: near to me and yet not close enough for me to touch him. It was as if he was a mere spirit, a presence, who had captured me, drawn me away from the world I had known, and brought me to his realm of shadows and blackness: a spirit, and not a man.
But he was a man – I knew that now. Talk, Christine, I told myself.
"Angel, I cannot see you."
There was something that sounded almost like a deep sigh from within the shadows where he stood and then a quick movement.
"As you wish, mon enfant."
There was another quick movement from his general direction and, suddenly, rays of light, emitted by candles that were perched high atop several huge, glittering gold candelabras that circled the room, ebbed into being.
I felt instantly relieved once I could see around myself again and then I remembered, tardily, the Phantom. I looked towards where he had been and then, at long last, I saw him.
He was tall and well proportioned in every way that I could think of. His shoulders and chest were broad and muscular, as were his arms, but there was also the slightest trace of lankiness to his build: a slim gracefulness to his shape. His clothing was sharp and attractive, melded to the shape of his body and made of black silk. Of course, I couldn't see much of it because he was wearing a floor-length, black velvet cloak that had strange, swirled patterns of jet beading around the collar.
And yet, it wasn't his clothing or his form that drew my attention the most. It was his face that instantly captured me and held me: heart, mind and soul, completely, as if nothing else existed, in a way that no other man's face ever had.
He had an aristocratic, proud forehead; a straight, fine nose; the most beautiful lips I had ever seen; and a well defined, firm chin. His eyebrows were dark and brooding: perfectly and expressively curved, as if they had been created specifically for the single purpose of poetry. His hair was thick and just long enough for him to slick it back on his head, and it was of a colour that was somewhere between a hazel and golden brown. His complexion was smooth, youthful, and extremely pale: white, with just the faintest hint of gold in it. And his eyes – his eyes…
The Phantom's eyes were the most beautiful eyes I could have ever imagined. Framed by long, thick, dark eyelashes, they were not a pair of uniform colours but a beautifully mismatched pair of green and blue. I had never seen anyone with bi-coloured eyes previous to that time, and I have never seen someone with eyes to equal the beauty of his since. The green in his left eye was flecked with gold and amethyst, while the blue on the right held hints of black and gray. They were impossibly beautiful eyes: so impossibly, unreachably, wonderfully beautiful.
But a white porcelain mask covered half of his face.
He must have seen the shadow of uncertainty that flashed through my eyes, for he moved, slowly, as if he didn't want to frighten me, removing his velvet cloak to whisk it about my shoulders, revealing the stream-lined, black suit he wore underneath. I felt his warmth behind me: his breath stirred my hair when he spoke, his beautiful, wonderful voice low, captivating, and husky, softened so that it was barely above a murmur.
"You're cold, mon petite. I should have seen that before."
I held out a hand towards him as he moved to stand in front of me again, and he paused, expectantly. I hesitated, gazing into his strange, mismatched eyes. There was something intimidating and incredibly powerful within them: as if he was an ever-living, immortal being who had been caged into a mortal body, cursed to live among men…yet, for some shadowy, black, unexplained reason, his gaze also seemed haunted.
Haunted by things that I couldn't begin to comprehend.
"Thank you."
My words, so sudden, were like an explosion in the silence and he seemed paralyzed by them for a moment. Then, he waved them off.
"Don't thank me. It isn't needed."
He turned to motion at the space around us, saying, "As you can see, this is my home. My palace beneath the surface of the Opéra Populaire." He shot me an apologetic, almost wry look, as I stood there, clutching his cape around me and marveling at all that I saw like a little peasant girl in the emperor's court, and then he said, "It's not quite what Monseigneur le Vicomte could offer you, but…"
"This is better," I said, and even before the words had left my mouth, I realized how strange they sounded. Here I was: just arrived in a place that I hadn't even seen part of, and already I was telling him what I thought of it.
The Phantom, standing where he was, not having moved since we had arrived, just staring at me, with his strange, unreadable, and somehow cold eyes, shot me a raised eyebrow, which didn't help to ease my flooring embarrassment. I blushed and looked away, mentally calling myself all the kinds of fool that I knew existed. Then, as if he had sensed that my intentions had at least been honorable, he roused himself and lifted my chin, although his fingertips never touched my skin, to make me look up at him.
"Thank you for saying so – it's not true, but thank you."
He released me, smiling a little, but even then I could tell that the expression wasn't all the way light-hearted. Something about him told me that he had seen much sadness, more sadness than any person should ever have to see, and that nothing could repair it. And it chilled me.
"Come, I'll show you around," he offered, and held out his hand.
I gazed at that gloved hand for a moment: at the slender, long fingers that clearly belonged to a musician: artist's fingers, and then my gaze traveled up from the fingers, to the palm, the wrist, the forearm, the shoulder, and finally the face that went with them. He was watching me quite calmly, almost questioningly. I hesitantly put my hand in his, feeling his fingers close around my entire hand, folding it within them, and he led me away from the portcullis and dock.
The room that we now stood in was a large, open space with a perfect, but cold granite floor. Above us was a high, domed ceiling with ornate, incredible paintings scrawling across the length and width of it. Gold edging spanned the place where the walls met the ceiling and it seemed to be real gold and not simply paint. Behind us, slightly in front of the portcullis and the dock, was the ring of huge, gold candelabras. I stared at them for a moment, seeing that each of them was easily more than twice my height. But that isn't saying much, I reminded myself ruefully, knowing that my height wasn't much to speak of, at least in this place, where the candelabras were gigantic and their owner was tall in his own arena.
To the left side of the room was a strange, cold-looking throne with silvery-black designs swirling across it, and on a table beside the throne was an adorable, but somehow strange-looking toy monkey, tiny brass cymbals attached to its paws, and dressed in odd, scarlet and gold robes. Trailing from behind it was a wire, which connected to a barrel organ. I wondered at the significance of this for a moment, then shook my head slightly and looked around again.
Just in front of the candelabras was a huge, beautiful pipe organ with candles glimmering all over it and several sheets of music. The Phantom caught me looking at it and explained lightly, almost carelessly, "My libretto – not quite finished yet, so it's not worth looking at. My apologies."
I felt myself redden and quickly looked away from it, embarrassed.
"I didn't – I mean – you—"
With another one of his distant, almost cold smiles that didn't seem quite real, the Phantom banished my uneasiness. "Please, mon petite, don't look so frightened. I wasn't going to spring forward and devour you for looking at it, nor do I mind that you have noticed it. I only say things like that to see how beautiful you are when you blush, cruel pleasure as it is, especially to you. But you know – you really ought to do it more often."
He chuckled in great amusement as I did that very thing.
"There. You see?"
He then led me across the room, to a door that directly faced the portcullis, and opened it, bowing me in. I obeyed, and he followed me in.
This new chamber was a warm, extravagant type of entertaining room: complete with heavy, elaborate tapestries hanging on the walls, a large fireplace, paintings, books, tables, a thick, plush carpet that cushioned my feet, and several ornate couches. A stairway made of black iron and glimmering, austere white marble led up and away from the room to corridors and passageways and other rooms that I knew nothing of. The entirety of the décor around me was fiery and opulent, and somehow like the Moor castles in Spain and the medieval Gothic architecture of France.
When I had finished surveying all of this, I looked up over my shoulder to where the Phantom stood. He was watching me again, with his strange, haunted eyes. After I had turned, he gazed at me for a moment longer, and then he seemed to realize that I was looking at him and shook his head quickly, as if clearing off a daze of some sort.
"If you please, mademoiselle."
He motioned to a curtained doorway: this one to my left. I noticed that he was observing all of my movements, carefully, with his strange eyes. I felt as if he was trying to see what I would do next. I tried to act calm and aloof, hoping that I would pass whatever test he was putting before me.
In another moment, we had passed into the next room. This was also large and similarly decorated: with a beautiful black piano, more couches and tables and armoires, and lining its walls were rows and rows of books. I couldn't and wouldn't hold back the gasp of delight that burst forth from me as I stared at them. Then I glanced at the Phantom, who nodded to me, the secret beginnings of a smile surfacing on his face.
"Good Heavens, I believe that it likes books."
"Good Heavens, I think that it has quite a few of them!" I said, crossing the room to the nearest shelf and running a careful, caressing hand over the spines of the books, savoring the crisp, dry, textured feel of the covers and inhaling the comforting scent of ink and paper. There was a pause behind me, and then he was at my side again.
"He read to you much, didn't he?"
I nodded, gazing at the books with intent eyes.
"Yes…Father always told me that, other than music, books and literature were the sole reasons that we can stay sane."
The dry, low sound that supplied him for a laugh met the silence in the air and he commented, "Your father was a wise man then – a philosopher of much more elevated thought than his peers…but I believe that there is one thing that he missed."
I frowned and looked up at him, only after studying the titles on the row of books that were at my immediate range of sight; Les Miserables, Le Hunchback de Notre Dame, and a world of famous others seemed to jump out at me, reproaching me for my ignorance. "And what was that?" I asked.
He watched me for another moment, his mismatched eyes seeing through me, scrutinizing me, piercing me, and then I looked away. He turned halfway and leaned up against the shelf, supporting himself with his hands folded behind his back, and he seemed to formulate, consider, and play out his reply silently in his mind before he actually spoke. "Art, mon petite," he said then. "What do you think the Sistine Chapel would be like without art? Or Notre Dame itself? Where would the world be if men like Michelangelo and di Vinci and Raphael hadn't existed? If not for art, well…"
At this he trailed off, shaking his head, with the slightest traces of a wry smile – that expression seemed to suit him, at least – curving his perfect lips.
I watched him for a moment, and felt myself stiffen when I caught sight of something rough and discoloured lurking where his lips ended behind the mask that covered the right half of his face. He suddenly turned his head back towards me again and stared at me. Somewhat startled by his abrupt movement, I turned the subject back to the books. "You've read these?" I asked, but somehow knew that I was inquiring of the obvious. He nodded, absently. It seemed as if he was bored with the question, bored with the room, bored with the books themselves.
"Yes. Several times, in fact," he replied at last, after a moment.
I tried – ineffectually, however – not to gawk as I stared at Les Miserables: a work that I had once attempted to read and failed miserably with.
"All of them?"
Staring now at the rest of the books lining the walls.
He nodded again.
"Yes."
Suddenly wondering, I turned to face him fully, so that I could read his profile. It was the most handsome profile that I had ever seen. Everything about it seemed almost perfect. And yet, there seemed to be a slight, unseen flaw…somewhere…
"Forgive me if this is impertinent, mon ange, but…" I trailed off, hesitating. "How long have you been here?"
At that, he glanced at me, seeming to take in his breath a little, then paused and seemed to seriously consider the question for a moment.
"How long, she asks?"
He seemed to be asking the question to himself more than to me, and paused again, shaking his head. At last, he looked back at me, his strange, haunted eyes seeing through me. "Ten, fifteen years, perhaps?"
I felt myself shudder and felt a rush of compassion, strange but not unnerving, for him. He seemed to know everything and anything…and yet, by looking at him, I really couldn't tell that he was as old as he professed to be. Finally, I gulped down my raging emotions of surprise and shock and looked up at him meekly.
"Fifteen years?"
He nodded, quite simply.
"Give or take a few."
I turned away, putting my hands to my cheeks and pinching the skin just below my jaw to make sure that I was still awake. Fifteen years!
Without a sound to tell that he was moving, he suddenly leaned around me and was staring into my eyes again. "Does that bother you, mon petite?" The almost teasing expression in his eyes and the flickers of a smile that lurked at his lips told me that he was trying to provoke me into smiling as well. Just to give him satisfaction, I did smile and shook my head. "No."
He shot me a dubious glance as he folded his arms and leaned up against the shelf once more. "But it shocked you, didn't it?"
There wasn't any hiding from him, and that I knew.
"Well…"
"It would, though, wouldn't it?"
He almost seemed to be speaking to himself again and I couldn't say anything, as I watched him.
"Any innocent child who hasn't been exposed to the true world and all its cruelties wouldn't see the reality, only the horror, in the fact that a person could live for such a long period of time without even being recognized. But it does happen, mon petite, and your Angel is perfect proof."
He gestured to himself and I was reminded of the perfect, sleek smoothness of his form. I blushed again – it wasn't every day that someone caught my attention in that way. As if seeing the reason for my sudden flush, he smiled his charismatic, teasing smile again and motioned to the door at the other side of the room.
"Shall we?"
We were almost at the door when my eyes caught sight of another familiar title. I glanced at him to see if it was all right, then went to pick up the thick, well-worn volume that I had recognized – La Belle et le Bete. A movement beside me told me that the Phantom was also looking at the book. I stared at it for another long moment, wondering. Finally, I gazed up at him.
"Is this yours…?" I ventured, not sure that my assumption of his possessing a fairy-tale book would keep him in a good mood. Then, he nodded amiably, surprising me, and took the book out of my hands. It seemed small and dark in his long, pale hands – the most beautiful hands that I have ever seen, even to this day – as he stared at it for a moment, then leafed gently, almost tenderly, through the pages. His eyes glimmered for a moment and I looked away; then, he replaced the book on the shelf, saying, "I make it a hobby – is that how they put it these days? – of mine to collect books like this one."
He glanced at the shelves lining the walls, frowning a little.
"Somewhere in here are Bluebeard, The Steadfast Tin Soldier, Donkeyskin, Griselda, Ricky of the Tuft, Puss in Boots, Cinderella, and I believe that I had The Sleeping Beauty in the Wood the last time that I checked."
Then, he sighed, shaking his head a little.
"I never really liked that story. The prince was just a little too soft for my tastes: always running off and going to war while his princess and their children were being tortured by his evil mother. I've always looked on him as a bit of a sap – not being able to see what was going on right in front of his perfect blue eyes."
The sarcasm in his voice was rather evident and he sounded almost bitter, so I decided to change the subject.
"La Belle et le Bete – that one is my favorite."
That seemed to get his attention, for he looked at me quite sharply, as one of his dark eyebrows raised in questioning skepticism.
"Really?"
I nodded and explained, "Father bought me a copy the year that I turned six." I laughed a little, remembering ruefully what I had been like as a rambunctious smaller version of myself. "I must have read it over a thousand times. I always loved the picture of Beauty and her prince at the end, on their wedding day."
At that, I frowned.
"Some people always say that it's terrible that he turned back – that he should have stayed as he was, for they loved each other in spite of his being a beast. I think…" I turned to him, wondering if I seemed very silly indeed to him, speaking so seriously on such a trivial subject. He probably couldn't care less…but I told him anyway. "Why should it matter? If they truly loved each other, it wouldn't make a difference either way. Handsome prince or Beast, he was still the one she loved."
A moment of silence lapsed between us as he scrutinized me, as if he was trying to see something deep within me. Then, he spoke and his voice was low.
"So, you think that it doesn't matter?"
I stared back at him, unable to take my eyes away; somehow, I knew that the subject behind our discussion wasn't the fairy tale prince anymore.
"No. It shouldn't."
The Phantom then abruptly turned away and I wondered if I had made him angry somehow, in some unexplainable way. When he faced me again, it almost seemed as if he was even paler than before, if that was conceivable, and the golden tones in his skin were almost nonexistent. And was it, could it be…? His eyes sparkled so brightly that it almost seemed as if he was about to cry. I shook my head slowly, banishing the thought.
It was all too impossible.
* * * * * *
I was amazed as never before in that evening when the Phantom showed me the wonders of his home under the ground. I had seen many incredible things, but nothing equaled that which I now saw in my strange protector's home. It seemed as if the strange lair was a subterranean palace, and I said as much to the Phantom, who laughed and seemed to enjoy the comment immensely.
Eventually, however, we returned to the room with the organ, the foremost part of the lair. I stood back and watched as he crossed the gleaming, black marble floor and somehow dimmed the hundreds of candles that perched in the giant chandeliers. Then, he turned back to me and our eyes met, and melted into each other.
What's going to happen now? I wondered, feeling calm, relaxed, and drowsy – like a sleepy child who was content to be home and on her way to bed. Was he going to take me back to the world above – the world where my life, and all of its loneliness and drudgeries and yet moments of sweet happiness awaited me? Would he tell me that now I must forget everything about this place and expect to never return again? That I must keep it forever a secret?
"It's late, cherie," he said, softly. He had dropped his eyes from mine a few languid moments before and had crossed to the immense organ, going to stand before its keys, reaching forward to rearrange some of the large, cream-coloured sheets of music-riddled manuscript. I watched the way that his mismatched eyes flickered over the music, beneath his long, ample fringe of eyelashes. I loved the way that his eyes moved, the way that his face seemed expressive and thoughtful even when he seemed to be momentarily without emotion.
Suddenly, he looked up at me again, smiling gently.
"You should be asleep."
I clasped my hands in front of me, now certain that he was going to tell me either the awful or the wonderful words that I needed to hear.
"Yes, mon ange."
What else was there to say?
He looked at me for another long moment, and then he held out a hand, beckoning to me gracefully. "Please," he said. "They'll all be out searching from the crest of the Opéra to the blackest regions of Paris for you by now, I'll wager. There won't be any use in your returning tonight – or otherwise until all the fuss has died down. Here, tonight, you have seen my home, little one. It is now your home: your sanctuary to which you may retreat when life's troubles assail you. You have but to seek me."
I couldn't believe was he was offering me.
This was now my home.
Numbly, I nodded, and he stepped forward, beckoning again. "Come – there is but one thing that I now ask of you, and then you must retire, for what prima donna has ever excelled and paralyzed the world with the sheer power and supreme beauty of her own voice when she has not yet rested? There is but one thing I ask," he repeated, showing me around the side of the organ, until I came to stand before its keys, with him at my side. I stared silently at the music in front of me, thoughts whirling in my head. He moved close to me – so close that his breath stirred my hair just ever so slightly when he spoke again, his voice a soft, icy cold, captivating melody in my ear.
"And that is that you sing for me, with me, just once, tonight."
Oh, my angel…
I nodded again, too bemused to speak. He stepped away from me and seated himself at the organ. I watched as his hands moved to the keys, and began to stray across them, drawing into being the most beautiful music that I had ever heard in my life. Somehow, I felt as if I had already known this song, and when he began to sing, I joined him, and our voices blended in the most perfect of heavenly melodies.
Night-time sharpens,
Heightens each sensation…
Darkness wakes
And stirs imagination…
Silently the senses
Abandon their defenses…
Helpless to resist the notes I write
For I compose the music of the night.
Slowly, gently
Night unfurls its splendor…
Grasp it, sense it
Tremulous and tender…
Hearing is believing
Music is deceiving…
Hard as lightening, soft as candlelight…
Oh, dare you trust the music of the night…?
Close your eyes
for your eyes will only tell the truth
And the truth isn't what you want to see…
In the dark it is easy to pretend
That the truth is what it ought to be.
Softly, deftly,
Music shall caress you…
Hear it, feel it,
Secretly possess you.
Open up your mind,
Let your fantasies unwind,
In this darkness which
You know you cannot fight,
The darkness of
The music of the night…
At this point of the music, I felt as if everything around me was blurring into a blissful, fantastic darkness: a world where only music and my Angel existed: nothing else. I left the side of the organ and strayed into the room, gazing about myself. Then, I heard his voice – his beautiful, vibrant voice that seemed to shimmer like stardust in the air about us – singing on, right behind me.
I turned and saw him, standing there, holding both hands out to me, and his amazing eyes gazed into mine, and I thought, for a fleeting second, that I had seen the depths of his soul there, in them.
Close your eyes,
Start a journey to a strange new world!
Leave all thoughts of the world you knew before!
Close your eyes and let music set you free…
Only then, can you belong to me…
Floating, falling, sweet intoxication!
Touch me, trust me,
Savor each sensation!
Let the dream begin,
Let your darkest side give in
To the power of
The music that I write…
The power of
The music of the night…
Then, he was directly behind me, and he was taking us across the room to something that I hadn't seen there before, something that was waiting for us in the shadows – a magnificent, full-length mirror. Transfixed upon it for some unexplained reason, I moved towards it, the Phantom trailing behind me. I felt his eyes on the back of my head…and, as I looked into the mirror, I stiffened when I saw that there was no mirror, only the frame. It appeared as if the reflective surface had been smashed out.
But behind it…
Standing, cool and aloof, and staring right back at me with lifeless eyes, was a perfect, wax-face impression of a woman's figure. However, there was something strange about it…for everything about this doll seemed to be exactly like me, from the colour of the eyes to the quirk at the side of the mouth: never quite believing what the eyes saw. She was wearing the most magnificent, ornate wedding gown that I had ever seen. Mesmerized by its beauty, I reached forward, wanting to just touch the lace on the edge of the sleeve, to know for sure that it was real and not some vision.
Suddenly, the doll thrust its hands towards me!
I screamed, terrified, and the doll's painted blue eyes – full of menace, no longer cool and slightly taunting – seemed to burn into my skin as it toppled forwards, reaching for me. I then felt myself falling and then, just as I least expected it, everything around me went completely black. The last thing that I was aware of was that something, someone, had caught me in a strong, deft embrace, and then I heard the softly sung, almost whispered words…
You alone can make my song take flight
Help me make the music of the night…
* * * * * *
Narrative switches to the Phantom…
I ran to Christine and caught her in my arms.
* * * * * *
Author's note: Ahhh…Music of the Night, truly one of the most beautiful songs ever written. Who wouldn't fall in love with Erik when he sings this song? Next update soon… @à---