"Christine?"
The chestnut-haired beauty looked up at Rose, her gaze dazed and distraught.
"I won't ask if you're all right, because, well, it's pretty clear you're not," Rose said, stumbling over her words in French. "But, well, if you ever just want to talk to someone who will just listen, I'm here."
Christine gave Rose a watery smile. She tentatively reached out and took the small dancer's hand in her own, long, elegant fingers.
The two young women stood for a moment in the fragrant silence of Christine's dressing room. Rose knew all the rumors that surrounded the young diva's disappearance and reappearance. She had heard about a ghost, a lover, a teacher, a vicomte, a plot…oh, the variations on speculation had been endless – and involved a lot of slang that she had quickly picked up.
"If only I could tell you," Christine whispered plaintively. "But the Angel of Music…he…he knows everything. He sees everything!"
Rose snorted and grinned, "Sounds more like a Peeping Tom of Music than an angel."
Christine shook her head, her eyes still wide and frightened. "No, no, he would never spy on me like that!" she remonstrated.
Rose quirked an eyebrow, biting her tongue to keep from disabusing Christine about the inclinations of men.
"You're fortunate to have such a tutor," she ventured instead, her eyes involuntarily flitting around the room, trying to discern where any spyholes might be hidden. But instantly, her attention was drawn back to the willowy figure seated before her. Christine had actually shuddered.
"Oh, you don't know! You don't know!" Christine wailed softly, burying her face in her hands. "I do not know what to do!"
Genuinely alarmed, Rose bent over her friend and wrapped her arms around her, letting Christine shake within the safety of her grip.
"Christine, what is it?" Rose whispered, squeezing her tightly. "What is it I don't know?"
Christine looked up at the slender dancer with agony in her eyes.
"My angel is a devil!" she whispered.
Rose's concerned expression instantly turned to one of sardonic amusement. "Now, Christine, lass, calm down," she said, dipping into her Irish for a bit of lilting practicality. "He's a man. Just a man."
Christine shook her head, her trembling growing more violent. Rose's lips pressed into a thin line. This wouldn't do. The girl was due on stage in less than half an hour. Hysterics now would ruin her make-up and exacerbate an already tempestuous and tense situation backstage.
"Christine, girl," Rose said, taking her by the shoulders and looking her squarely in the eyes. "He's a man. Human. Not an angel or a devil. He's a flesh and blood man."
Christine trembled but held her gaze with the innocent trust of a child.
"I've seen him," Rose added with a crooked smile that crinkled up her grey eyes and made her serious face seem sweeter and more youthful.
"You have?" Christine squeaked in a frightened little cry.
Rose nodded and full-out grinned.
"Aye," she replied with a careless laugh. "I chased him up through a passage and even spoke to him."
Christine eyed Rose as if the girl had suddenly grown two heads.
"And I hope he's listenin'," Rose added, chucking Christine under the chin. "Because he needs to know that his manners are abominable, and he really should get rid of the cape if he's going to go sneakin' around – after all, what does he think he's about, twirlin' that silly cloak everywhere. He's inside, and it never rains inside. And frankly, that little melodramatic swish of the cape is what gave him to me."
"You mean what gave him away," Christine corrected automatically, but Rose's words had started to have an effect. Her shoulders relaxed, and some color came back into her cheeks. She even managed to smile a bit.
"Right," Rose laughed, acknowledging her still faulty French. "Now, lass, you think you'll be okay to go perform tonight?"
Christine nodded, taking a deep breath and smiling a little more bravely.
"Good," Rose said, patting her shoulder. "Because now I have to go warm up or Madame Giry will have my head!"
If only we were so lucky, he thought bitterly behind the mirror as he watched the twiggy little dancer leave the room. He had almost forgotten about her in the intervening weeks since her arrival. But now, he was powerfully reminded of just how much he hated her.
How dare she try to disabuse his precious Christine of the mystique he had so carefully crafted! Didn't she know what was at stake? His happiness, the very beating of his heart depended on continuing to hold Christine in the thrall of his mysteriousness.
True, he mused as he slipped away from the mirror and made his way toward the secret staircase that went up to the catwalks, Christine had seen his face. That had shattered the illusion of the handsome, mysterious angel. But, he felt fairly certain that the beauty of his voice and the sheer enormity of his love for her had faded that terrible image from her eyes.
He snorted and grimaced as he lightly trod on the flies, his cloak swirling behind him. He amused himself with the image of wrapping that cloak around the dancing chit's head and smothering her with it. He felt a pleasant wave of dark amusement at his own perfect sense of black humor. It would serve her right for talking about things she shouldn't. He sighed, then, knowing he wouldn't harm her for the sake of Madame Giry. That irritating little dancer was safe for the moment, unless she crossed the line beyond the point of no return.
A muffled protest drew his keen eyes into the shadows. His jaw tightened. It would seem that the little dancer wasn't quite as safe as he thought.
Joseph Buquet held the girl by the throat, pinning her against the rough boards of the catwalk. She clawed and kicked, but he could see that she was growing weak from the choking hands around her neck. And he could also see the evil intentions in Joseph Buquet's lewd movements as he pressed himself on top of her.
What had she been doing up there in the first place? The thought flashed through his mind, but a red mist of rage pushed it aside. Joseph Buquet was no better than them, the godless bastards. How dare he lay hands on Madame Giry's protégée? How dare he give lie to her words that the girl was safe now? How dare Joseph Buquet put the girl exactly back in the position that he himself had risked so much to rescue her from?
Suddenly, everything resolved into a cool, clear reasoning that stated it would be quite right to serve this man out by killing him. It would end a nagging problem for him, it would end a…an unpleasant problem for the dancer…and it would also clear the way to handle a much more competent stagehand. Yes, all around, it was a good decision.
With icy deliberation, he stepped from the utter darkness into the lighter shadows, allowing his footfalls to be heard. Instantly, Joseph Buquet paused and looked up, peering around the flies. Suddenly, he spied the black, spectral figure, and his body tensed. The dancer gasped and clutched at the hands that were still around her throat, weakly plucking at them, trying to pull them off.
He didn't move, and in the end, it was the perfect stillness that frightened Joseph Buquet off of the girl – but not before he left a warning for her in the form of his fist crashing into her delicate cheek. The stagehand staggered over the now-still body of the dancer and into the shadows to catch the elusive "opera ghost."
It was all over very quickly. The Punjab Lasso was such an admirable tool, he never failed to admire its silence, speed and efficacy. He left the body of Joseph Buquet lying hidden in a corner of the black catwalk – he had plans for it, but first things first.
He made his way over to the unconscious dancer who lay on the flies like a butterfly caught in a spider's web. Silently, he knelt next to her. He didn't touch her to feel her pulse, but was satisfied to see the slight rise and fall of her chest. That bastard had pulled her skirts up with his obscene efforts, and now, very gently, he lowered them back down. He saw the angry bruise forming on the girl's face and absently thought it would take quite a bit of make-up to cover it up for the performance.
The performance! The thought of it suddenly snapped him back into action. Gritting his teeth, he scooped the dancer into his arms, surprised at how light she was given what he knew of her strength. He tried his best to keep at bay the memories of the sweet feeling of holding Christine in his arms like that. Only once had he done that, when she had fainted.
Must a woman always be unconscious to be in my arms? he thought to himself with his characteristic sardonic bitterness. He slipped into the passageway between the walls and headed down the small staircase to the dressing rooms.
Warm! Soft! So close! His body and his heart ached together just at the feeling of contact with another human being. He scowled viciously as he hurried through the secret passages. He would have to leave her in Madame Giry's rooms – everywhere else was full of pre-performance chaos.
He slid into the ballet mistress' dressing room and gently deposited the dancer on the divan. But the shifting of positions unfortunately stirred her, and her eyes flew open, alarm and panic suddenly blooming on her features as she stared out into nothingness, trying to understand where her assailant had gone.
He pressed his gloved hand over her mouth to keep her from crying out and giving him away. Damn her! He fumed but patiently kept the pressure gentle.
"Don't make a sound," he growled in her ear as he crouched behind her. He felt her relax in his grip and removed his hand. Her breathing had returned to normal, and it was clear she had guessed she was safe now. Grudgingly, he admired how quickly she composed herself – knowing the price one paid for such a survival instinct.
"Thank you," she said softly, starting to turn around to look at him. His hands grabbed her shoulders and forced her back to looking straight out in front of her instead of back at him.
Then, he straightened up and silently crossed the room to the still-open secret wall panel.
"And I'm sorry," she called out to the air in front of her. His steps deeper into the passage arrested out of insatiable puzzlement. What was she sorry for? She was the victim. She had nothing to be sorry for.
"I'm sorry I made fun of your cape earlier," she said.
And Rose swore that she heard a grating, bitter shout of laughter from the other side of the silent wall.
Thanks again to all my reviewers! You really make all the difference to me!
Oh, and I couldn't resist a little nod to the best line from "The Incredibles" for the chapter title. I hope you will forgive me.
-Kate
