Chapter Eleven - Only One Thing
Christine lay in a narrow bed in a tiny, windowless room above the ballet dormitories. It was a dreary little cubbyhole, high in the wing of the Opera House that had been spared the worst of the fire.
Grim as it was with its dusty iron bed and dingy gray walls, it was a temporary haven for Christine. Monsieur Reyer had apologized for not finding her a better refuge, but Christine was thankful for this place.
She closed her eyes and pressed her face against the bare mattress, trying to hold back her tears.
She had thrown aside all she had - her husband, her title and hard-won position in his social circle, her home - to find her Angel, to beg for his forgiveness and his love.
It would be so easy to die. Outside her room, a low door led out onto the Opera roof. It would be so easy...they would find her broken body in the street. The papers would fill with gossip. Raoul would mourn for her...
As she let despair push her mind into a numbing sleep, only one thing drove away the thoughts of suicide.
Alone in his own room in the opera house, M. Reyer sighed and looked over the score for the Opera's next production.
Tired as he was, he found it easier to sort through the pages than to sleep. He didn't want to admit it, nor did he want to become too deeply involved, but he was worried about Christine.
Poor girl. He could still remember her unexpected debut, a shy girl transforming into a radiant singer with the most exquisite voice he had ever heard.
A hand was suddenly laid heavily on the music in front of him.
He looked up and saw the Opera Ghost standing there. M. Reyer saw that he was dressed, not in the immaculate suits that he'd favored before the chandelier incident, but in a rumpled velvet robe over an equally wrinkled shirt and trousers.
"Where is she, Jerome?"
The Phantom's voice was sharp-edged with anger, but M. Reyer was now used to that temper.
"I assume you mean Christine? I don't think I have any right to tell you."
His visitor swept the scores off the table. Placing both hands on the scarred wooden top, he leaned towards Reyer.
"You thought you had the right to tell her how to find me. Now, tell me, Jerome, where the hell is she?"
"What makes you think I know? What makes you think she is still here? For all you know, she is at home with her lawful husband."
The Opera Ghost's eyes darkened with rage at those last words, but his voice was like ice...clear and cold.
"I will find her, sir, if it means tearing this damned theatre apart. And, if I am forced to do that, there will little left to rebuild. I ask you to make this easier for all concerned. Why the hell is she?"
Christine's sleep grew more restless, even as it grew deeper. She twisted on the bed, fighting to keep from dreaming. Clutched in her hand was the handkerchief stained with the blood from her Angel's hand.
A shadow fell across her, darker than the black dress that tangled around her tense body.
The Opera Ghost leaned over the bed, not even daring to breath for fear of awakening her.
He reached out and let his hand skim gently along the contour of her face and throat. Not touching her, yet close enough to feel the warmth of her skin, to imagine its sweet softness against his fingertips.
Slowly, he knelt beside the bed and watched her tortured sleep.
