A/N: Thanks for all of the happy birthdays. I had a good one; my mom got me a very pretty rose. () I like that smilie. I didn't know it was Sarah Brightman's b-day too. What a coincidence!. . . Anyways, thanks once again to my reviewers gives them sweets
Disclaimer: It's still not mine, really, I swear. Maybe if I'm a good girl, Santa will give it to me for Christmas. /wishful thinking
Christine:
"Yes, just sign here and - yes, there."
I returned the pen to M Andre and forced a smile to M Firmin. They seemed awfully jittery, constantly flinching at the loud bang of Mme Giry's cane, which could echo through almost the entire Opera House if she slammed it hard enough. Looking around, I found that nothing about their office had changed, except that they had more papers on their desk than usual. One note written in red ink caught my eye, in particular. When the managers were distracted with filing the contract away and talking to eachother, I cautiously took the note. I glanced over it, savoring for the short moment the smell of sandalwood. Instantly I had recognized the hand-writing and the signature confirmed my suspicions. Sadly laughing silently to myself, I replaced the letter on the desk and waited for the two men's attention.
"Now, Mlle Daae," Firmin said with utmost formality, wiping sweat from his brow, "last time you were here we had a few. . . a few. . ."
". . . Complications."
"Complications, exactly, thank you, Andre. There were some complications, Miss Daae. How will we know that there won't be anymore. . . problems?"
Sighing inwardly, I retained my bright, almost inane, smile. This was the first question I had expected and the last I wanted to answer. "Gentlemen," I said sweetly, "I assure you, there won't be any more 'complications'. I simply won't allow it."
"But should be in the middle of a production -"
"Are you worried about Mlle DeVan becoming a toad?" As much as I'm ashamed to admit it, I had always found that trick on Carlotta extremely entertaining. . . "You have nothing to worry about, sirs."
They both exchanged glances and Andre said, "We were thinking more along the lines of. . . disappearances."
He let the words hang in the air and I nodded slowly. Already I was making promises I couldn't know if I would keep; I had no idea if all this even had the chance of happening again. "Don't worry, messieurs. It won't happen again."
For the moment, they seemed mollified. Visibly relazing, they shook my hand with quivering smiles and gave me leave.
Opening the door cautiously, I anxiously looked around. To my disappointment and relief, nothing had changed during the time I was away. I closed the door softly and laid down on the divan. There was a dull ache in my head which presented itself while I was in the managers' office. shutting my eyes, I rubbed my temples in slow circles. It seemed that tese headaches were only inflicted by those two nervous men. . . and perhaps, most of the ballet chorus.
There was a loud insistent knocking at the door that I immediately recognized. I called her in and sure enough, in came Meg Giry with a grin on her face. I returned the smile (I was beginning to feel that if I smiled anymore that day my cheeks would crack) and sat up.
"Oh, Christine!" she cried giddily. "I've missed you so much! Where did you go?"
She threw her arms around me and I hugged her back. We laughed happily and she literally bounced up and down with a dancer's grace. "I missed you too," I replied truthfully.
"What's become of the Vicomte? He was very handsome."
"Yes, he is," I said with a sigh. She down beside me and twirled a strand of hair in her fingers. Meg was dressed in her black leotard and white stockings, ballet shoes on her feet. Most of her curly brown hair was tied in a bun at her neck, with exception of a few loose strands. "I hear he's still a patron. . . But, Meg!, shouldn't you be practicing?"
"Oh! Well, yes, but I just had to come and see you. Is it true that they just signed you on as Mlle Julia's understudy?" I nodded. "Oh Christine! That's wonderful! The Opera has quite honestly been horrible ever since you left. Mlle Julia thinks she's another Carlotta, rest her soul -"
"'Rest her soul'? What do you mean?" Meg's hand suddenly flew to her mouth as a look of shock flew across her face. "What do you mean, Meg?" I repeated firmly. "What happened to Carlotta?" "You don't know?" she asked in a hushed tone. I shook my head slowly and she took a deep breath. "Oh, I thought you knew. . . Carlotta committed suicide, Christine."
And then it was my turn to be shocked. I stared at her in a daze and was vaguely aware that I was wringing my hands together. Suicide? I mused silently. Carlotta is. . . dead?
"After Signor Piangi was killed," she continued, her ballerina instinct taking over for a moment, "Carlotta was never the same. For weeks she refused to sing, let alone speak. And then Monsieur Andre went into her dressing room and found her dead. She had hanged herself and left a short note; the managers never let anyone know what the letter said, but a lot of the ballet chorus like to make things up."
After a brief silence, I whispered, "That's horrible. Poor Carlotta, may she rest in peace. . ." It was true that I disliked the woman, but never would I wish death upon someone.
Subdued, Meg said, "Julia is going to be furious, I think, when she finds out about you. I truly want to see her reaction!" As she giggled, there was a sudden and familiar bang; both Meg and I instantly sprang to our feet. Standing in the doorway was Madame Giry dressed in her usual severe black dress, her large cane in hand. Her eyes were on Meg, a look of what appeared to be fond annoyance on her face. "Meg Giry - avoiding lessons again, I see. Well, I want you to go practice your pirouettes; your balance has been off on your left leg as of late."
Meg scampered off past her mother. Madame Giry showed me a rare smile and said, "Welcome back, my dear," before leaving herself and closing the door.
I sank back down onto the divan, shutting my eyes tightly and rubbing my temples. I had chosen to ignore the dull throb in my head while I talked to Meg; the ache worsened and forced any and all thoughts from my mind; the only thing I could concentrate on was the pounding and silently screaming at the ballerinas to stop their insanely loud chattering. Vaguely, I considered throwing a shoe at them. Or better yet, I thought bitterly, an apple. Maybe then they'll finally eat something!
They all squealed simultaneously and I listened to the soft pattering (which seemed like loud banging) as they ran down the hall, away from my room. Groaning softly, I turned onto my side, only to jump in surprise. This, of course, only worsened my headache and caused a sudden wave of nausea. I battled it down as I stared at him in bewilderment. He was standing in front of the mirror that covered the far wall, and seemed to be as amazed at his presence in my room as I was. His head was bowed, obviously trying to keep as far from me as he could. For once, it was Erik that stood there shifting uncomfortably! I would have laughed at the irony if it weren't for the pounding in my skull.
"You're ill," he said softly, taking a tentative step closer. His eyes were downcast, seeming to keep his gaze away from me. He was about to take another step towards the divan when he abruptly faltered and retreated back. "I'm sorry to come in without your consent. . ."
The trembling in his voice was evident and confused us both. Last time he had come in such a sudden blaze of fury. Now he was all but sheepish! Why did he come back?. . .
"Did you say something?"
I had unknowingly voice my thoughts, albeit softly, but he always did have great hearing. . .
He was waiting for me to say something, his golden orbs gazing at me gently. I realized that I wanted him to stay, and that, if I didn't say something, he would leave. "Please," I croaked softly, gesturing to the chair near the vanity.
He must have seen me wincing, for he turned down the gas lamps so that only a low glow filled the room. Hesitating in much the same way as a child would, he took the chair and pulled it nearer to the divan. "May I?" Erik whispered, brushing his hand against my forehead. I made a sound quietly and dropped my arms. Soon his cool fingeres were on my temples; a soft sigh left my lips as I closed my eyes. I imagined that I could feel the warmth of his lithe body so close to mine. . .
"Erik. . ."
He paused, brushing a lock of my hair away from my eyes. There were so many things I wanted to say to him, and all of my thoughts tried to force themselves through my mouth. Impusively I reached up to touch the glassy mask on his face but he quickly flinched away, catching my wrist. The hand that held mine was shaking, as if he were trying to get a grasp on his instincts. Slowly I sat-up, noticing that my headache had dissolved beneath his fingertips. He released me and turned to leave. As quickly as I dared, I took his hand and held it with both of mine, feeling him go rigid.
"Don't go," I implored. He let out a shivering sigh that was barely audible and he pulled away with a jerk, retreating to the mirror. He placed both hands on it, his long fingers spread apart. His breath was just barely grazing it, but the mirror's surface rippled. I came up behind him and touched his shoulder, causing him to stiffen and then barely shudder. With the greatest reluctance, he turned to face me and daringly took my small hand. He breathed slowly as his golden eyes stared at me in a shadow of pained confusion.
We remained like that a minute longer and I pulled him back into the room, gently pushing him onto the divan. I went to the small dresser, looking through the drawers hurriedly. Finding it, I sat in the chair across from him, scooting it back so as not to make him uncomfortable. "You. . . you left this; from before." And I held out to him his black fedora, which he took back with a feeble hand. He seemed to avoid my gaze, so I contented myself by staring at my lap.
"Christine, I. . . I'm sorry. . . I apologize for frightening you earlier. . ."
"It's all right, I forgive you," I murmured, nodding my head absently. "May I. . . ask you something?" When I consented, I nibbled my lower lip for an instant and plunged into the question, "Erik, could you tutor me again? Of course, if you don't want to -"
He silently cut me off, staring at me almost blankly. His eyes contained a look of confusion. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat, trying to guess what he'd say as I played with a fold in my skirt.
"If you wish," he said finally. I let out the breath I'd been holding and realized I'd been dreading his rejection.
I dug my nails into my palm, noticing dejectedly that he wasn't looking at me still. Tentatively, I put my hand on his knee, wondering at my uncharacteristic forwardness. It was obvious that he was trying to relax his stiff shoulders. I pushed an errant lock away from his pristine white mask, trying to catch his eye again. "I've missed you, Erik. . ."
He sighed suddenly, a sort of plaintive sigh that brought tears to my eyes, and suddenly regained his composure. Gently he touched my hand briefly, in an infinitely sad way. . . Erik rose and tilted the fedora in his usual manner as he placed it over his raven hair. He looked so oddly debonair that I couldn't help but smile. He bowed gracefully, daringly taking my hand and brushing his lips against my fingers; my heart suddenly leapt to my throat, and a blush grew on my cheeks. "I'll be here tomorrow at seven o'clock to begin your lessons. . . Please do not be late, Miss Daae."
And with an elegant flick of his cloak, he vanished through the mirror.
Raoul:
"So do you understand?"
The woman before me nodded briskly, her strawberry blonde curls bobbing with the movement. A look of resolve was fixed onto her young face and always had been since I first met her. Her hazel eyes were cold and unemotional, so I could never guess what she was thinking or feeling. Her legs were crossed in a most unlady-like way, and she had an elbow rested on the arm of the divan. Though she had the outward appearance of a well-bred young woman, she had the manners or a rogue. . .
"I do," she said sensuously, rising to face me as I stood at the mantle. Her blood red lips curled into something like a smile; she came close to me, resting her long hands on my shoulders. She began to reach for my face with those red lips, but I quickly pushed her away, almost harshly.
"Mademoiselle," I said with strict formality, nodding curtly. I brushed off my arm invisible dust, almost as if I could rid myself of a newly acquired disease. I stared at her icily, but she didn't seem to notice. "I do hope you realize I have a wife."
"Do you?" she replied caustically, hands on her hips. Her lips were pursed, but soon she was sneering. "Well, soon enough, anyway. I'll show myself out." She brushed past me, flipping her hair over her shoulder. She paused at the doorway and spun around on her heel to glare at me. "I shall be expecting my payment soon, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"Yes, I am quite aware of that, Miss DeVan."
She made a sound very much like a grunt and whirled out of the room.
A/N: Love it? Hate it? Want me to get on with it? Review please!