MADAME O.G.
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Chapter 5: Il Muto
Christine was not altogether surprised when La Carlotta's voice mysteriously gave out on the opening night of Il Muto. No one was, after the Opera Ghost's threats, except perhaps MM. Firmin and André – and the latter more than the former, fancying himself a man of the arts and therefore paying particular attention to the superstitions of his hobby. Erik had not told her what he planned, but they had practiced the Comtesse's part whenever she was not in rehearsal. She thought that surely someone would hear his organ bellowing out the most important lines of accompaniment, but no one ever did. Each night she found him, and later slipped back into the dormitory for sleep, exhausted by the triple burden of her part, the ballet practices she was still expected to attend, and her singing.
No one was surprised, either, at her skill at the role, or at the ovation she received. The loudest shouting came from box five and, startled that it should come from that quarter, she had tried her hardest to make out the occupant through the stage lights. All she caught was a glimpse of golden-brown hair: not Erik. He would not be pleased with that, she thought, and wondered where he had heard the performance.
She was not to wonder long. As soon as the wig-maker had safely removed the Comtesse's fabulous headdress and the costumer had replaced her ridiculously large skirts with Christine's own smaller ones, all life seemed to vanish from backstage. Work was over for the night; the singers and dancers were flirting with their admirers, and the rest of the crew were on their way back to their homes and families. Well, she had told the Vicomte de Chagny that she could not possibly sup with him that night, for she had to rest: she could not look for company there. Thinking she saw a flash of Meg's golden head, Christine lingered backstage to look for her, wanting a friendly (but not slavishly adoring) face to speak with.
"Ange," said a deep voice behind her, a voice she would know anywhere. A deep red rose tied with black ribbon fell to the ground at her feet, tossed gently over her shoulder.
"Erik!" she exclaimed, turning, pleasure evident. "I did not disappoint you?"
"If you had, I would not have greeted you so warmly," he said, and she could imagine his half-masked smirk, though she could not see it. He stood in the shadows, and she was sure a deep-hooded robe hid his face. "But here is not the place for it; it would not do for us to be caught! I shall be waiting for you at Apollo's Lyre."
It took her a moment to understand what he was saying: Apollo's Lyre, the great statue in the opera-house's rooftop garden. He was gone even as recognition of the name sparked. It was a reasonable place to suggest they meet: she still could not find her way in the basement's canals and corridors with any proficiency, and since it was snowing outside, it was highly unlikely that anyone would be there. It also explained why he disappeared: she needed to change into something warmer if she didn't want to freeze.
A few minutes later, she had wiped off the worst of her makeup and properly clothed herself for the out-of-doors; she hardly thought that the Phantom would mind the patches of rouge and kohl she'd missed, and she was anxious to speak with him. She could never have learned to sing half as well without him, and for all he frightened her sometimes, she was sure he had kept his pact. No lasting harm had come to Carlotta's voice – why, Christine could hear her wailing all up and down her extremely large range even as she slipped through the opera-house's corridors to find the stairway that led to the roof!
Though she did not realize it till she was nearly at the garden's door, she was also excited that he had summoned her outside. She had never known him to venture out of the opera-house's environs, except on shopping visits – certainly he had never offered to go on a walk and take the air. Perhaps this meant he was changing, she thought. Perhaps he had begun to realize that no one who mattered would jeer at his mask and his misfortune. Perhaps!
At first she didn't see him when she left the opera-house, as the garden was lit only by moonlight. Then she saw way some of the stars were blocked by his dark form. "You approve of me," she said confidently.
He faced her. "You knew already that I approve of you. I approve of your performance."
She laughed. Her laugh was more musical, to his ears, than anything he could possibly write. "Very well, Monsieur Wit! But was that all you summoned me here for? In which case..." she made to go back down the stairs, teasing.
"No!" Erik's voice was adamant enough that, for a moment, she thought he didn't realize it was a joke. It softened, though, as he continued to speak. "I had not come here in a long time, and I wanted to show you the secret way back down. Also, I wished to see Paris from above. I thought you would appreciate it."
It was a half-thoughtless gesture, really: though she rarely referred to the statue by name, Christine had lived half her life as part of the Opera Populaire, and she had seen the view many times. All the same, she walked to the edge of the roof and looked down over the railing.
Maybe, she thought, she had forgotten how truly breathtaking it was – or maybe it was only that Erik was so clearly appreciative of it. He had gone quiet in the way she had grown to recognize was true admiration, in him.
"I'm sorry – the view is beautiful – but Carlotta will get her voice back, won't she? You did promise me. I swear that after that, no more talk of tonight's events shall come from me. You never say anything not to do with opera, and if you brought me to the roof for such a sentimental reason, perhaps tonight ought to be an exception to that rule." It was not strictly true that he never said anything not to do with opera, but it was true enough for recent days, and after all it would not exactly be politic to bring up the day he had told her of his childhood.
"Yes," he said, after a time. "Yes, I only put a minor irritant in her throat spray. Her voice will return quickly, although the embarrassment may prove more of a limit on her than anything else thereafter."
"Good."
They stood in awkward silence for a long moment, shoulder to shoulder at the garden's rail. It transmuted into a comfortable silence, thankfully – a companionable silence, perhaps. Christine, seeing that Erik was entranced by Paris' lights and the brilliancy of the constellations from so high up, studied his profile rather than the city's streets. She stood to his left, from which angle his mask was only a sliver of white lining a straight nose and setting off dark hair.
"Here," she said, suddenly filled with elation after her triumphant night. "You haven't seen this yet!" Scampering across the snow-filled courtyard, she ran to the statue known as Apollo's Lyre itself. It depicted the god on galloping Pegasus' back, playing (what else?) his lyre. Just behind the god's broad back, however, the winged horse's haunches and tail formed a platform wide enough for a child to have a picnic on or for adults to stand on. It was easy enough to climb up on, the outstretched hind legs making a convenient stair.
"Come up!" she told Erik. "This is the highest you can get without breaking your neck."
Somehow it surprised her that he came, vaulting up much more easily than she had. It certainly discomfited her to have him so close, pressed up against her as he had to be to fit on the small standing-space and hold onto the statue's wings for balance. She had not climbed on the statue since she was much younger, and it had seemed bigger then.
"I've got you," he said, his mouth disconcertingly close to her ear. "I won't let you fall." One hand snaked around her waist as the other gripped at the stone; he must have misread her discomfort for worry at the height.
"I know you wouldn't," she said, realizing the truth of things. "It's the last thing I would expect from you."
Suddenly Christine could hardly catch her breath. There were butterflies in her stomach, just as there were every time she went on-stage. Oh, she thought, though I know I am safe the height must be affecting me! But that was not true, and she knew it. It was Erik's presence that was making her anxious.
"Are you too cold?" he asked, that angelic voice so close and insinuating once more. "You are all stiff! You cannot catch ill after such a triumph. It would be insufferable."
"Oh! No," she replied. "Not cold." As though she were indeed chilled, however, she settled back a little further, leaning the length of her body against Erik's. It did not help banish those strange sensations, but she could hardly help herself. Her heart beat fast, surely faster than it ought, and closer in her throat than she recalled it usually being. She knew what she felt! She had heard the other members of the corps de ballet discuss their lovers often enough! It was not right, not what a good girl ought to feel for any man – but she could hardly help it. The arm he held around her waist was more than a man ought to touch a good girl, she reasoned.
"Perhaps – perhaps I am too cold after all," she allowed.
"Very well," he said, and released her, inching backwards to find his footing on the Pegasus' hind legs. A certain tone of hurt was in his voice. Had he known what she was thinking?
"Erik."
The word got his attention, and he looked up at her, raising one hand to help her down. She took it, and as she stepped lightly off the statue, did not relinquish it. "Thank you," she said. "For keeping your promise, but for everything else, too, and for the care you take of me."
His face, though still impassive, softened a little, and he led her by the hand to the secret door of which he'd spoke. Just before Christine slipped through its opening, following his lead, she glanced behind her and thought she saw a glimpse of gold. Looking again, however, it was gone, so she turned back to her maestro and his passageways.
End Chapter 5
Notes: Thank you to everyone who has reviewed. Your kind words have really kept me going. I was very hesitant to post a story like this, in which the alternate universe stems from an essential (if small) change in characterization, especially since it's my first foray into fanfic in several months; I'm really glad that it's been so well-received. In summation: dear readers, you rock.