"Madam something has been delivered to you," Jean said to his young mistress. Christina slowly turned in her chair at his words. Her curly hair fell against her shoulders as she turned.
"For me?" She asked in wonder. No one had given thought to the grieving lady since her grandfather had died. How she wished she could see whatever it was. It must be grand. Jean placed it delicately in her lap. Her fingers sought over the object trying to "see" what it was. She felt the soft leathery feel of a petal.
"A single rose," Jean pointed out. Christina nodded as she felt the bite of a thorn. She breathed in the scent. A rose! In winter? Who could have done this?
"There is a letter my lady," Jean spoke stirring her from her reverie.
"What does it say?" She asked. She heard the rustling of parchment paper being opened. Jean cleared his throat. It was not his voice, but Erik's that she heard as the letter was read...
Christina,
Fondest greetings to you my dear. I trust you are well. Visit me soon, child of heaven. The gift which I sent is beautiful, but nothing can compare to your lovely features, Mon Rose.
Your obedient friend and angel,
O.G
Christina would have laughed out loud if Jean had not been present. O.G! Opera Ghost! She had told him that Christine once spoken of the stories of his letters to the managers of the Opera so long ago. And now he was trying to make her laugh! Of course he knew though that the letter would not be private since she was blind she had to have someone read it to her. So he had been brief, it did not matter to her. She had not been with him for many days. He must have missed her...
Erik fingered the dirty fabric that had once belonged to Christine's wedding gown. He had held it with him since he had found it. As if it would bring him good luck. He began humming a tune that had been with him ever since he had heard it. It was a laughable mockery that he himself had not composed it. His mouth silently shaped the words, and then as if giving in he whispered the song to the darkness...
Masquerade!
Paper faces on parade...
Masquerade!
Hide your face so the world will never find you!
Masquerade!
Every face a different shade...
Masquerade!
Look around there's another mask behind you!
He smiled with the memory. The masquerade ball had been a glorious night at the Opera House indeed. Everyone dressed in different costumes. Christine had looked lovely as usual. Raoul had been hovering by her all evening. They had looked splendid together he had to admit. The Vicomte de Chagny and Miss Christine Daae. A dashing pair. He snorted. He had never liked Raoul. But as long as Christine remained happy, he did not...could...not care. And then he had appeared and spoiled the evening for them. He smiled again. How he could look back on the tragedy with humor was beyond him, but then the past was dead to him now. He would not let it consume him again. Then he remembered the monkey playing the cymbals on the music box he had once cherished; Christina had loved that, too. When the mob had come they had taken it away from his home. He had sorely missed its silent companionship, even if it was just an object of fake fur and metal. He sighed and placed the scrap of white silk back into a small pocket inside his cape. Such memories a meaningless piece of cloth could envoke...