I don't usually do dedications, but this one is for Kristal from PFN - thanks!
Chapter Three - Are The Stories True?
The next morning, Christine awoke alone. Most mornings, she found herself still caught in her husband's arms.
She pushed off the coverlet and, tugging her twisted nightgown into place, stood before the floor-length mirror. She laid her palms against the cold, slick glass. If only she could close her eyes and will her Angel to return to her. If only she could open them again and see his white mask before her.
"Oh, Angel, Angel, forgive me."
She stepped back a little and stared at her reflection. She was no longer the frightened chorus girl caught between darkness and light. Lying in Raoul's embrace, she had reached the point of no return.
She opened the armoire and found a simple gown. She dressed quickly without the help of her maid. She pulled her hair into a loose knot and sat down at the little writing table in the corner. She took out a single sheet of fine, cream-hued paper. The note was short and, when she finished it, she removed the heavy gold wedding ring from her finger. She laid the note and the ring on the bed.
Drawing a hooded cloak over the gown, she quietly left her husband's house.
-
Twenty minutes later, she stood before the doors of the Opera Populaire and took a single deep breath.
"Can I do this," she whispered aloud.
She walked up the steps and a footman held the door open for her. The foyer looked the way it had before the night of the fire. She could almost hear the music of that last Masquerade drifting through the place.
"Mademoiselle Daae!"
She turned and saw Monsiuer Andre hurrying across the foyer towards her.
"I mean, Madame le Vic..." he began, making an excited bow and taking her gloved hand.
"Please, Monsieur, call me Christine. We are old friends."
"Of course, Madame, I mean Christine. What brings you here? What can I do you for you. I trust your husband is well. We are so sorry that you declined our invitation to attend our opening gala, but we do understand why the two of you decided..."
What invitation? Christine could not recall any invitation to the gala. Had Raoul received it and said nothing to her about it?
She forced herself to smile at the effusive manager.
"The Vicomte is well. You must promise not to laugh, but I am just a little homesick for this place. It was the palace of my childhood and I wanted to see it again. Would you mind very much if I walked around for a time?"
"Of course not, Christine. Feel free to go where you'd like. I shall arrange for someone to escort you.
Christine shook her head.
"No escort, please," she said quickly, "I would rather just wander alone for a time. But I have heard the rumors. That the theater is truly haunted now. Are the stories true?"
Andre stared down at his gleaming shoes.
"I am afraid they are true. Everyone here, it seems, has heard certain sounds, caught glimpses of shadows where there should be none."
He did not mention the notes. Their content had not changed...the salary, criticisms of the performances. But their tone had. They were blunt and devoid of the distinctive mockery that had always been typical. The fact that the author was presumably dead added to the discomfort of the managers.
Still, with both Christine Daae and La Carlotta gone from the Opera House, the demands regarding the casting were much more reasonable
"And the old dressing room," Christine asked him, "is it still in use?"
"No, it's been empty since you left us."
-
Christine stood alone in the dressing room. It had been Carlotta's, then hers. It was here that she found the Angel's first rose, here that he had first come to her through the great mirror.
She pressed her hands to the glass...
And found it would not move.
