MADAME O.G.

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Chapter 7: Unmasked

The ball was not over for all the guests, but it was most decisively over for Christine Daaé. "You've gone white," Meg told her, grasping her arm. "We must go. You don't want to hear all the questions..."

It was true: she would have been mobbed if she had stayed much longer. As it was, Meg led her out. The crowd parted for them. The Vicomte left with MM. André and Firmin shortly afterward, leaving their guests to gossip and stew about what exactly happened – and who exactly Red Death was.

"Now," Meg said, gently pushing Christine into a chair in her new chamber, "tell me everything."

Christine laughed, but cut it short when she realized her friend didn't see the humor. "I can't," she said. "It's not that I don't want to. But – oh, God! I must go see Erik. I have to now."

"No! Why is it so urgent, and who's Erik, anyway?"

"He told me he would die when his opera was finished. Well, Meg, his opera is finished, isn't it?"

Her blue eyes widened. "Erik is the Opera Ghost?"

"Yes! I don't know why I didn't realize. He was so strange tonight; I thought he was only playing a role, but..." Christine made for the door, only to be blocked once more by her friend.

"You aren't going anywhere until you explain to me your relations with Erik, or whoever he is. I won't stop you then, but the Ghost is dangerous!"

"Not to me!" she started, but saw that it was useless. Sitting down once more, Christine quickly gave a highly expurgated account of her times with Erik. The golden ring was still clutched in her hand. She only hoped Meg hadn't seen it.

Meg must not have – or perhaps she was only letting sleeping dogs lie – for as soon as the story was over and she was properly convinced that there was no danger, she stood up and pushed Christine towards the door. "What are you waiting for?" she asked. "Your color's better now. Go on!"

If Christine had been thinking more clearly she would have seen the glint in Meg's eye: her friend was up to something! But her thoughts were all with Erik. The initial panic had faded; she didn't really believe he'd do anything rash, at least not until he had seen Don Juan Triumphant performed. Still, she had to see for herself. Jamming the ring onto one finger to keep it safe, she nearly flew from her room.

It had been long enough, now, that she knew one passage by heart at least: that from her dressing-room to the Phantom's lair. That was the path she took, grimacing at the damp passages' effect on her beautiful skirts. They were scantily lit: she was not expected. There was enough light to see by, though, and if rats squeaked at her feet, well, she'd seen much worse before. The only thing that really concerned her was the gondola and the portcullis beyond. She had never gotten the hang of poling the boat, managing only a sort of slow, zigzagging movement. Normally Erik was there waiting to chivalrously ferry her through the flooded halls. This time he would not be.

Indeed, the gondola was as much of an obstacle as she'd feared. Several times she almost gave up, sitting down in the dirty bottom of the boat and staring at the moistly shining walls; each time she thought better of it, realized that no one would come rescue her if she didn't rescue herself, and stood up again to keep poling. She actually thought she was doing better, towards the end: had she not been wearing such an encumbering dress, she might have been downright speedy.

Finally she reached the portcullis and managed to pull the boat right up to its algae-covered bars. "Erik?" she called, searching for him, but he was not in the open front room. "Erik! Where are you?"

No one answered. She could hear nothing but the mocking drip of water.

She kept calling for what seemed like an eternity, growing slowly more and more anxious. Surely he ought to be back in his home by now! Surely the party was over upstairs; what more would keep him? The ring on her hand mocked her as she impotently shook the bars of the portcullis. She had put it on her right ring finger, as though for an engagement. The sight of it brought tears pricking in her eyes, against all reason, so she looked away. "Erik!"

Finally, finally, he came. He must have entered through one of the 'back doors,' for he emerged from one of the corridors that led around to parts of his house which Christine had not yet been invited into. "Christine?" he asked, evidently surprised. It was ridiculous how much relief that voice could bring! "I hardly thought my alarms would be set off by you tonight."

"Don't be... oh, don't be like that," she replied, unable to keep petulance out of her voice. She had so quickly gone from the sublime (the woe, the agony, the pure operatic beauty of her situation) to the ridiculous! It was embarrassing, now that she knew that all her worry was unnecessary. "I'm sorry I came. I thought, since you had said you would die when you'd finished your opera..."

"Don't be sorry," he said, unconsciously echoing her words. Then he was silent, looking at her through the portcullis' wide basket-weave bars. She immediately felt that he knew exactly what had brought her there; she felt – God! she felt as though he knew every thought in her mind. And some of the thoughts weren't ones she'd admit to having, not to anyone...

Abruptly, the bars began to lift. Christine seized the pole again and brought the boat to shore as quickly as she could, necessarily breaking Erik's gaze. When she looked at him again, however, his eyes still rested on her. When he helped her out of the boat they glanced downward and back up again. What could he be looking at? she wondered, until she remembered the ring – and where she'd put it for safekeeping.

"I oughtn't wear this," she said, and slowly worked it off her finger.

"Ah," he replied, his voice somehow less powerful than it had been only a few moments before. "Then –" he took the ring from her and slipped it into his breast pocket. "I see why you came. But you cannot imagine that I would let you go simply like that?" Striding across the room to the lever that controlled the portcullis, he pushed it down with a dreadful half-smile that was more like a grimace. Whatever wavering note was in his voice before, it was gone now. "I told you the truth, Christine, on that first day. You have only one choice. You belong to me."

As the portcullis fell, she struggled to understand what he meant. The shocks of the day were wearing on her, and her mind was working slowly. "I only meant that I wouldn't wear it on my hand," she said, realizing what he had thought. "The opera-house is a gossip mill! But I hold to my promises! Rao – the Vicomte escorted me to the bal masqué, nothing more."

Walking nearly in his footsteps, she too crossed the room and retrieved the ring from his pocket. "I shall wear it – here!" A moment later, it joined her father's locket on the chain around her neck.

The death's head mask, which he had not yet exchanged for his customary half-mask, grimaced down at her when she looked up to see his response. He was silent: she could not determine what he thought at all, until slowly he lifted one hand to where the ring lay on its chain, just below her collarbone.

"Thank you," he said.

"Don't thank me," she whispered back, standing on tip-toe to reach behind his head. She fumbled for the ribbons that held the death's head mask on. So close... she could feel the now-familiar butterflies, could sense her heart rising into her throat. He was so dangerous. He needed her so badly that he would keep her by force if necessary; that was alluring, in its own way, and frightening too. The significance of the heavy bit of gold that lay, now, brushing the tops of her breasts was catching up to her. "I do hold to my promises. But I haven't promised anything – yet." It was true, she hadn't: he had always ordered, and she had not disagreed.

She hardly knew what to expect in response, but it was not his breathing to hitch, as though he were as effected by the situation as she. She was exquisitely aware of each point of contact between them: her arms rested against his broad shoulders, lightly touching his neck. Her hands caught up bits of his hair along with the mask's ribbons, until the ribbons gave way and the mask fell.

Stepping back a little and breathing freer, Christine looked into Erik's ruined face and discovered that it didn't even make her flinch. "Look," she said, her voice unsure, "your future bride."

As though in a dream, she felt his arms encircle her and his face press into her hair. It was a moment before she responded, surprised by his sudden affection. She had not known him to be an affectionate man: seductive, yes, and at times weighed down by his own past, but nothing more. Then she heard that hitching breath again and realized what she could not while he was wearing the death's head mask: he was silently weeping.

Christine had seen him cry once before, but that was the deep, uncontrolled sobs of a child. Now she was unsure whether his tears were for joy or sadness or fear. She only knew how tightly he was holding her, how he smelled and felt, how she wanted to comfort him. Carefully, as though frightened of rejection, he pressed a kiss to her forehead: the tears began anew.

"It is so good," he said, his voice soft and hoarser than she had ever heard it, "to kiss someone on the forehead. You would not believe how good it is, Christine!"

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Men have a way of pretending to hide themselves, but not really doing so: they will retreat to a mostly-empty room, or to a corner, and think that their goings-on are secret from the world. Meg Giry long ago had learned this, and had been making use of it ever since. The night of the masquerade ball, however, she could not possibly try and spy out what the managers and their patron were speaking of. They had seen her leave with Christine; they knew the score.

There was someone they wouldn't suspect, however. No one ever suspected little Jammes of being anything but a bubblehead, trying to find out more about this gossip or that, trying to hear more about the Opera Ghost – and generally she was no more than a bubblehead. But she owed Meg a favor, and she was genuinely interested in Christine Daaé's Cinderella story.

"We cannot succumb to this madman, whoever he is!" M. Firmin nearly shouted, not noticing a ballet girl slipping into the main auditorium.

"We can't not!" André replied, just as heatedly. "Next time it will be Piangi to lose his voice in the midst of a production, or Mlle. Daaé –"

"No, Mlle. Daaé will not lose her voice," the Vicomte de Chagny interjected. "Not while this ghost rules our theater. He looks at her..." There was anger in Raoul's voice.

"But the opera – it is good," André continued, ignoring the Vicomte. "Listen!" He hummed a few bars. They sounded tuneless, although Jammes could hardly tell whether that was the fault of the score or the fault of the manager's bad ear. "We won't be shamed by it, you know. What was it you were saying about tragedies, Firmin? If we put it about that this was written by the Opera Ghost we shall have full houses every night!"

"No one will believe it was written by the Opera Ghost who was not at the masquerade," Firmin pointed out.

"They haven't got to believe it – they only have to be willing to pay to see it!"

"Gentlemen!" the Vicomte broke into their banter once more. Jammes scampered down the aisles, pretending to search for something she'd left. "I know how we can snare this ghost once and for all. Put on his opera, yes, rather than Faust. We know exactly where he sits, or where he would sit if you did not persist in giving the spot to me. On the night of the performance, he will be unable to resist seeing his opera performed by Mlle. Daaé. You saw how he danced with her."

"Our men are there!" André expounded.

"Armed," Firmin added.

"His reign of terror over the Opera Populaire shall end that night," said Raoul grimly, "and you shall have half a season in which to rule your opera-house as you like."

Jammes had heard enough: she pulled a dainty handkerchief out of one dress-pocket and held it up with a cry, as though she'd found it. The men looked over to her. "Oh! My apologies, Messieurs," she said. "I was only looking for my kerchief. I did not mean to intrude."

The Vicomte seemed angry, but the managers were still officially in charge, and Firmin had a soft spot for the youngest little ballet dancer – a fact Jammes had always been quick to capitalize on. "How could the brightest jewel of our corps de ballet intrude?" he said, shifting quickly from serious to laughing words. "If you had asked us, we would have helped you search!"

"La Sorelli is the brightest jewel of the ballet girls, not I, and I wouldn't be so very pert as to demand that my managers – and my patron! – help look for a little scrap of cloth I lost! And now I'm on my way," she replied, flirting a little.

"Good girl," she heard Firmin say, as she drew the great doors to the theater shut behind her. "Reminds me of my oldest sister's child, who's Mme. Pierpont now, wed just two weeks ago..." His voice grew fainter and finally disappeared as she ran down the hallway. Don Juan Triumphant to be performed! La Daaé to play the leading female role, across from M. Piangi! She had fully discharged her debt to Meg indeed! Revelling in this new bit of gossip, Jammes went back through the opera-house, searching out Mlle. Giry.

End Chapter 7