Chapter Two: An Ethereal Vow

Author's Note: I own the Phantom of the Opera and all of its characters and its entire plotline and every little detail—no, just kidding. Of course I don't. Thanks to all of you who reviewed to my previous chapter. I was really expecting more harsh critiquing than that, truth be told. I'm glad you all enjoyed it! Also, Angelic Lawyer, to answer your question: I'm really not sure if radios existed then or not. Good point. Thank you for bringing this to my attention. However, I'd hate to have to go back an edit seeing as it would change a bit of the plotline (and I'm lazy), so I'll just have to let it slide this time. And one more thing; thanks to those of you who helped me figure out what Christine and Carlotta sang in Il Muto. Or rather, what they played. Now my phanphiction shall be not only more authentic, but more entertaining as well. ^_~

...

           Even after all that had happened to Christine, not one day was as peculiar as her first at Palais Garnier. She was almost immediately shown her dressing room, where she spent most of the morning, and where several people stopped by to see her. The first of these, of course, was Madame Giry; then Christine was greeted by the newly appointed managers, Monsieurs Andre and Firmin. Even several of the small ballet girls managed to sheepishly say 'hello' on their way to wherever their spry little legs were taking them.

           However, it was when Carlotta entered the room that her day truly began.

...

           "Yes, come in."

           Christine heard the sound of something sweeping across the rugged carpet as a rather tall, black-haired woman stepped into the room, a solid 'click' filling the air as she shut the door. Her eyes were a hard green, shining with a malevolent light that Christine could not entirely comprehend, for contradicting this contempt was a rather charming smile that could win over anyone—at least, anyone as naive as Christine.

           "I heard there was a new duckling," she said. Christine could sense arrogance under the tone, almost as if this woman was really implying, 'You're the duckling, little girl, but remember that I'm the swan.' This set a destined enmity between them. If it was not there at that particular moment, Christine thought, then it would surely develop in no time at all. However, not wanting to be rude herself, she put on the largest smile she could manage and replied in an innocent voice:

           "I suppose I'll take that as a compliment. Thank you. Won't you sit down? I haven't even heard your name; I don't think we've met before. I'm Christine."

           "Oh, it's a splendid pleasure to meet you....Christine. I'm sure someone's told you about me already. I'm Carlotta. I'll be singing in Il Muto with you, so I decided I should get to know another of my fellow cast-members."

           With this, Carlotta sat down upon a small bed-like couch that lay resting against the opposite wall of the dressing room, crossing her legs. Christine could not help but notice that she wore the finest of clothes, her current theme being red. Apparently, Carlotta knew that she, like everyone else in the theatre, noticed, and it made her rather perturbed. Is that all she wanted? To flaunt in front of the 'new duckling'?

           "Well," Christine mumbled, "I don't think I'll be singing, exactly... It's more of a silent part, you see. But yes, I'll be on the stage."

           "Oh? Well, I'm sorry. Perhaps it is that they simply haven't heard your voice at its full potential yet. Or—"

           Christine arched a brow. "Or?"

           "Or, how about we never mind that subject, hmm?"

           "Yes... I think that would be best."

           Carlotta grinned up at her, almost triumphantly, and shifted her skirts so that they rested more fashionably. Or at least, that's what it seemed to Christine, who turned to look away. She peered deep into her three-sectioned mirror, still half-facing Carlotta, and began to stroke her silky blonde hair with a brush. 'At least I have prettier hair,' she thought, ashamed of her rising jealousy.

           "So, Christine. Have they told you about—oh, I just shudder when I even think the name, let alone speak it—the Opera Ghost?"

           For some reason, a shiver ran down Christine's spine, much like the eerie chills that overtook her the night she came across the masked spectre. Opera Ghost... That seemed a fitting name for him. All too fitting, really... The way he was so smartly dressed, his beautiful voice, and that apparition-like way he saw right through her, even—

           "They say they've seen him. Anew, at that, roaming the halls once more. Most of us, of course, haven't even had notice of him since the death of Joseph Bucquet, but Andre claims that he's asking for Box Five again."

           Christine snapped up her head, aware that Carlotta was speaking.

           "Death...?"

           "Yes! The Opera Ghost isn't new to killing men. He's killed more here. I've only seen Joseph die—not that I saw it happen with my own two eyes, but I was here when the first reports of him came—and I'm definite that he—the Ghost—has got more people stored down in his lair underneath the Opera House."

           It might have been that Carlotta was lying simply to scare Christine. Even the few minutes that Christine had spent with her already was enough to make this possibility liable. Her personality was dominating, sly, eager to make known her alpha-ship over the lesser in the Palais hierarchy. And, quite obviously, Christine was one of the lesser.

           Nevertheless, something about the situation in which she found herself made her believe. Death. Ghost. The foreboding instinct dwelled within her that the spectre and the Ghost were one and the same man—and that could only mean one thing... The masked one that had beckoned her to go that night must have been the murderer! There must have been a reason for Philippe's death, then, but what was it? And why had she been told to go home? It was still so puzzling, so shocking. And to think, he could really be here, wandering the halls of Palais Garnier!

           "Oh, my goodness..."

           "Yes, I know. Isn't it just awful? And no one's been able to get close enough to him to attempt vengeance for those he's murdered. In fact, the bravest of men wouldn't dare it even if this was untrue. Do you have any idea why?"

           Christine looked up, her face becoming more pale with the minute. 'I must control myself lest I start to cry again... But I feel so stunned that I'm not sure I would, even if I were alone...' Christine tried to speak and could not find her voice. Instead, she shook her head lightly, laying the brush—which she had absent-mindedly dropped into her lap—on the top of her table. All attention was now utterly focused upon Carlotta. The thought did not even cross her mind that this was what the diva wanted. However, the information she possessed was far more important than Christine's pride, so it was not of much matter.

           "He yields a whip perfectly. They say it's made of cat-gut, and apparently it works quite well, because that's how Monsieur Joseph was killed: hung. Yes, they found him hanged. I'm sure Joseph didn't see what was coming.

           "Of course, you just don't see the Opera Ghost. In fact, he could be listening to us right now... Watching us, even! But these, terrifying as they are, aren't the reason. People fear him because of what lay beneath his mask. Hideous, they say, like a Death's Head, but far, far worse. I have never seen him, of course, because all who have seen are thought to have died then and there, whether by the Ghost's hand, or his face..."

           Mask. That was it; that was all Christine needed to confirm it. She had met the Opera Ghost. Yes, everything matched Carlotta's description. And what now? What if he found her here? What would she do if she ran into him? He had committed a murder, she was sure of it, and who was to say he would not slay her as well? Apparently he was all-knowing, all-seeing... This beast could kill her easily if she thought in the least that he suspected her knowledge of Philippe's death. And what of these others? Oh, he was a madman! What could she do...? Palais Garnier was her only hope left for living the life she had always longed for. She could not leave it, but it seemed she had no choice...

           "I see," Christine mumbled, her voice weak and shaken. She could feel the intense stare of Carlotta, although said nothing beyond this. She was incapable of it. In fact, she considered herself quite lucky that she had managed to say anything at all.

           "Well, I must excuse myself. I must prepare. Leading roles are so terribly hard to sing, but they say that I can make it work. I must go practice." Carlotta giggled devilishly, stood, and rustled her skirts—making a terrible noise—as she walked to the door. Before leaving, she looked back at Christine, who gazed at the far wall where Carlotta had been sitting, deep in thought.

           "Good luck, Page Boy. Let us hope neither of us sing too terribly bad on stage! It would be hopping terrible!"

           Christine turned her head, slightly taken aback. How did Carlotta know her place in Il Muto? She had said nothing... Nothing save that it was a silent part... Perhaps she was told, or perhaps she had guessed. The remark hurt her regardless, however, and she had mind to say something, but when she opened her mouth, Carlotta had quickly slammed the door and was gone. Christine could still hear her laughing softly to herself as she walked, and listened as the sound faded slowly away...

           "As if my current predicament isn't bad enough," she whispered, letting her head fall into her hands, streams of hair concealing her tortured face. She would have given anything right then to be back home, leaning on the shoulder of Rachelle and weeping, telling someone she loved her problems. Oh, why did Rachelle have to die? Why? Oh, why did everything she loved have to die? Her father, then her friend, then her dreams, and finally  her security. All of it was dead. Everything.

           Death.

           That seemed to be the one word she could not escape. It was because of death that she was alone. And furthermore, it was because of death that all else was bent on looking down on her, against her. It seemed that the only friendly soul she knew now was Madame Giry, although she knew her for scarcely a few days, and their bond was a light one that could easily be broken.

           Why was life so unfair? She could think of no reason why God had to punish her so. She had been a good girl all of her life, obeyed and loved her father, spoke respectfully to her elders, and when she grew, she thought she had made a decent life out of the ruins that were behind her. Rachelle provided her with a home that she cleaned and a friend that she cherished. But no. Death. Death took that away. All of a sudden, just like her father, Rachelle was gone.

           "Oh, if only I was never born..."

           Surely you don't think that, my dear.

           Christine looked up. Had it been her imagination? Carlotta was gone. But she was certain she had heard someone say something. She slowly stood, clutching her chest with one hand. No, she was simply imagining things. That was all. She had simply gotten carried away with the thought of death and murder and silent phantoms. Christine felt her head fall and a sigh escape her lips, although she knew, once more, the melting of reality from around her. Nothing remained save a giddy feeling in her mind.

           "What's the matter, Christine? You must not take young Carlotta's words to heart; those were words moulded with jealousy and born with hate. Of course, they will end in demise. But tell me. Why does it trouble you?"

           That voice... It was so familiar, and yet Christine could not attach a face to it. She struggled with this for a few seconds, and then sought to find the voice's master. When she looked once more about the room, she saw no one. No one at all.

           "Oh, I'm sick of it," she mumbled half-heartedly.

           "Oh, yes. Sick of being misled, deceived, lost, alone..."

           Christine did not want to agree with the voice's words, although found that this was impossible. And what's more, it was equally impossible to deny its presence. She sat back down, silent, trying to comprehend what was taking place. Perhaps this, too, was unfeasible, for she was unable to come up with a reasonable explanation. Her mind seemed to be occupied by some other person, as if it was no longer her own—it was hazy, and she could not extract information from her memory.

           "Who are you?" she asked softly. If she could not remember who the voice belonged to—and the answer to this question irked her something awful—then she would ask. Surely the voice would tell her. It just seemed so kind, so ready to listen and understand, eager to tend to her every whim.

           Silence.

           Again Christine mustered up the strength to speak, to ask.

           "Who are you...?"

           There came a pause that might have sickened her. However, her conscience was blurred, and she could sense very little, therefore she only waited. The voice did not come for some time, although when it did, she felt her heart jump.

           "I am the Angel of Music, Christine."

           Immediately her mind was freed from the imprisonment that so slowed it. Perhaps it was the shock of hearing such words. The Angel of Music? Was this true? The voice belonged to no human—it was so soft... Could she possibly say that it was not the Angel she had waited for all of her life? Then the image of the Opera Ghost filled her thoughts, and she froze, her eyes growing wide.

           "Now, my dear... You look stark with fright. Do you not believe me...? Can you not believe your Angel? Listen to my voice, Christine... Come, hearken! Do you not hear the sincerity? If you do not wish for my presence still, however, I will go... But please, do not forsake me, Christine. Do not forsake your Angel of Music...!"

           Oh, how he begged! How sad he sounded! The agony in his tone was too much to bear. What cold-blooded killer could possibly sound so heartbroken? Yes, it must be her Angel of Music! He had come to her, at last! Oh, the joy she experienced! The wonder! The Angel of Music her father had sent from heaven above... No, she could not send him away. Finally he had come! She was sure of it. Christine did not think even once, after she had made up her mind, that it could possibly be the Opera Ghost. This was ruled out. The voice belonged to her Angel of Music.

           "Angel! Oh, my Angel! No, do not go! I've longed to see you for so long... Nay, I can't let you go back! Stay with me. Where are you? Why will you not stand before me, that I may see you?"

           "Not yet, Christine. If you will only be patient with me, then in time I will show myself to you. But not yet."

           "Why?" She exclaimed. Her euphoria exceeded reason, and it seemed unfair, unjust that her Angel should still remain unseen. She had a right to look upon him! Oh, how she would love that moment! Her Angel of Music, at last!

           "Please, Christine. Am I not worth waiting for?"

           Christine felt shame rise above the joy that she had briefly felt. He was right. She had become far too excited. Oh! Why had she not thought to be more careful? How close she might have come to losing her Angel! This thought made her furious with herself, and partially scared.

           In a timid voice, she said, "Yes, Angel. Of course you're worth waiting for; I'm sorry. Please forgive me... Don't go..."

           "Of course I won't go, my darling. Of course I won't go... I will be with you always! And I shall give you lessons to make your voice melodious and the envy of all! I'll never leave you, Christine..."

           A smile tugged at Christine's lips. Everything would be alright. She had a friend now, she had a haven to run to, someone to speak with, and lessons from an angel. Also, a Ghost could not come near an angel, and so she was safe. He said he would never leave her... Never! How blissful, to know that she would never again be alone, and that she would be forever watched over by her angel. While she trusted in his word, she still inquired one more thing of the Angel of Music.

           "Do you swear that you will never leave me, my Angel? Do you promise?"

           If Christine could have seen her Angel at that time, she would have seen a smile, composed half of ardor and half of victory.

           "Yes, my love—of course. I promise."