The Girl

A/N: I have taken some artistic license with the Grand Theatre for the sake of the story. It was originally built in the 18th century, but that doesn't work for our dear characters, now does it?

The din of the crowd had gradually disappeared, only the buzz of insects making shrewd music in the air. The sky was a deep orange with traces of mauve along its edges. It reminded him of her, the nights on the roof, but then again, everything did.

"Christine," he breathed, despair lacing every syllable. He said her name nightly in the hopes that one day it would be spill meaningless from his mouth. That one day, "Christine" would roll off his tongue as easily as any ordinary word. He found he had miles to go before he slept without dreaming of her. He replayed their last meaning over and over to remind himself of the pain. Her words: hate, pitiful, fallen idol, false friend, deceived. Anger flickered within him, but was extinguished by the loud female voice to his right.

"I don't think it's so bad."

Erik turned to see a short, lithe girl of about 16 with long blonde hair wrapped into a bedraggled chignon. Her face was ruddy and her cheeks swollen with the effects of playing hard and playing fast. She looked like a young boy. He turned his steely green gaze to her own blue one and stared hard. She didn't flinch.

"I guess most people do not look the way you do, but it is not so awful. You should no look so angry," the girl replied, rocking back on her heels. "Just my opinion," she added hopefully.

When the scarred man did not reply, she ventured on. "I think most people are stupid, monsieur. Please forgive me for speaking so bluntly, but they are. What you are on the outside is not reflected on what you look like on the outside. My maman taught me that."

Erik just stared at her. No one had dared to talk to him in all the time he had been imprisoned. People had only hurled insults and jokes like pebbles on a lake. They skip, skip, skip across him, finally landing in his depths with a resounding plop. Outside, he was like a mirror: he only reflected their derision. But this girl ... Erik did not understand what she was playing at. It was only a cruel joke, he supposed. A glint of malice could be seen in his eyes as he watched her. He would terrify this girl yet.

But he was not prepared for her next words.

"Who's Christine?"

Vicomtess Christine de Chagny gazed across the setting sun and warmth filled her soul. Bordeaux was absolutely lovely in the summertime.

In the distance, she could just make out the Garonne River which flowed quietly into the Bay of Biscay. When she and her husband had decided to stay at one of the de Chagny summer estates outside of Paris, Christine had been especially attracted to Bordeaux because of its littering of canals within the city. The house was miles from the hustle and bustle of the city.

Secretly, what had attracted Christine to the Bordeaux cottage house was its simplicity. Though the opulence of their home in Paris was beautiful to look at, it often overwhelmed her. The relative smallness of their cottage allowed her freedom from servants and aristocrats. She liked that.

Christine remembered when they had settled into the Bordeaux house, Raoul had taken Christine out on the gondola.

"Shall I sing to you, Madame?" Raoul asked with a grin, as he poled them effortlessly forward through the clear depths of the river.

Christine paled slightly and turned her face away from her husband. Raoul misinterpreted her pause.

"You think me a terrible singer, Madame?" he joked. Christine's head swam with images of another gondola in another time, but she managed to equip a convincing smile.

"Of course not, my love," she smiled. "Just no more of Faust. Terribly dry, that," she said with an exaggerated English accent.

Raoul laughed, as she always made him laugh. She was beautiful, her white summer dress spread around her like goose down, her dark curly hair free flowing in the wind. More than that, she was happy. A small smile alighted her face and the glow of the sun only made her that more luminescent. He had sighed, unable to believe he had ended up with such a wonderful woman.

That was four years ago, only mere months after -

Christine's thoughts came to a halt and she formed a thin, tight line with her mouth. She had come to accept that she could not rid this man from her thoughts. So much of her life up until she was 16 had been embroiled in the man whom she called the Angel of Music. To think of the details had often been painful, but it was also wrought with times of intense joy. She did not know which kind of memories hurt more.

Since she and Raoul had fled the Opera Populaire years ago, she had not spoken of him. When Raoul had asked her about him, she refused to answer and simply said that "It is in the past." She had married Raoul and been living at their Paris estate for four beautiful years without the mention of his name. She reasoned that if her thoughts never escaped her lips, she could not possibly burden Raoul with the guilt that she felt, a guilt she was unable to accept as real. More than that, she did not want to accept the possibilities of that guilt and why it had cursed her so. If she simply did not talk of him, he would disappear from her life.

Now she knew that was not that case. The Phantom of the Opera, her Angel of Music, had awakened in her a harsh reality that her 16 years old innocence could not - and did not want to - understand. Now she knew the gravity of what she had done. Her nights were sleepless thinking of his agony at her refusal to give him the only thing he wanted. Though she had been sure she did not love him romantically, she had misunderstood the fire in his eyes as anger. And her response to his touch, she could not understand. As a married woman and a few years wiser, she now did. She understood him and hated herself.

She loved Raoul. Loved him for everything they had once sung about. With him, she was content. Living as a Vicomtess had been an adjustment, as had the servants, the parties, the people. Mostly, Christine just smiled.

Right now, Christine missed him. He had financed the building of the Grand Theatre, a great opera house to be built in the heart of Bordeaux and his business had taken him out of the France to Luxembourg, Germany, where the owner of the dilapidated building lived. It had seemed that the owner, Monsieur Andre St. Cyr, did not want to give up his building, a clothing store in bad business, without a fight.

"Christine!"

Christine started suddenly, her breath caught in her throat and a blush of guilt spreading up her neck. The voice belonged to Brigitte Mercier, Christine's favorite maid. Christine realized she had clenched her fists and had been worrying at a handkerchief. She relaxed her hands, silently berating herself for her foolishness.

"Oh, my goodness, I'm so sorry!" Brigitte exclaimed, her cherub cheeks reddening in her plump, plain face. Her hair, always in disarray, was in a lazy bun and her dress was slightly rumpled. "I'm sorry, Madame de Chagny. I did not mean to call you by your first name."

Christine looked around in mock suspicion. "Well, no one's here." She paused. "I think now you can call me Christine."

Brigitte giggled. "Oui, Madame." Christine wagged an insolent finger at Brigitte. "Oops. I mean, Christine."

Christine smiled at Brigitte warmly. This had become a game to them now. The first time Brigitte had called Christine by her first name, it had been at a social gathering at the house. The room of upper-class nobles had all but gasped in shock. Awkwardly, Christine had forced a laugh and said, "She's new." She ushered poor, embarrassed Brigitte from the room amid disapproving stares. She caught Phillippe, Raoul's brother, utter, "Common." Her face turned an ugly shade of scarlet, but quickly faded as she and Brigitte dissolved into a fit of giggles.

When Christine had married Raoul, she had found it difficult to become accustomed to servants fixing her hair, picking out her clothes and serving her meals. She had not even expected for someone to help her wash.

"I'm not a child, I can bathe myself."

"No one thinks you're a child, darling," Raoul replied, a patient smile on his face. He knew Christine was not yet adjusted to this new life of pretension and glamour. He was never embarrassed of her; rather, he enjoyed the widening of her eyes and the "O" of her lips at the mention of a new custom or tradition not known to her.

"But I cannot deny you." He took her hand and kissed it gently, then ushered the servants out of the room. With a smile, he backed out of the room as Christine got undressed. Secretly, she had wished for him to stay.

It was after her bath that she met Brigitte. The small girl had burst into the room with a holler of "Madame!" and quickly began attending to Christine wet hair. Christine's mouth hung open at the openness of this girl, and Brigitte must have noticed for she began to apologize profusely.

"Oh, Madame! Please excuse me, I forget my manners! My name is Brigitte Mercier and I will be your maid, Madame.

"Oh, goodness, I always forget my manners. It's just that I was so excited to meet the new Vicomtess that I flew in here as soon as I had heard you had arrived and, my word, you have beautiful hair! Positively lovely! I do so love fixing a good head of hair."

Brigitte rattled on for many moments more before Christine had a chance to speak. Again, the apologies rained from Brigitte and Christine smiled. She liked this girl. Among the stiff upper-class of the bourgeoisie, Christine always felt somewhat vulnerable and inevitably clumsy. She felt that she was the outsider among an inside joke that she couldn't understand, even if the noble-bloods had bothered to explain it to her. That was no matter, however. She had Raoul, she had comfort; she could not think of more for herself. And now, it appeared that she had a friend.

Christine smiled at Brigitte's across the veranda, the sun setting behind her creating an angelic halo of light. "What are so excited about, my dear?" Christine inquired. Brigitte was even more bouncy than usual.

Brigitte stilled for a moment and then thought. Perhaps she should keep what she knew to herself. With a soft shake of her unkempt head, she decided. She simply smiled and said, "Christine, you must help me."

The shock that ran through his body was almost palpable, for Brigitte looked at him curiously and said, "Are you alright, monsieur?"

A cold steel stiffened his spine and he spoke bitterly, "That is none of your concern, child. Away with you. I would not have your name sullied by conversing with a monster."

So pleased was Brigitte that he had finally responded, she pressed on, not noting the darkness that had begun to deepen the hate in his eyes to furor. "Oh! I only ask, monsieur, because my lady, she is named Christine. She is very beautiful, oh yes, monsieur, with the most lovely brown curly hair. She is a most lovely singer and married to the most lovely man and –"

She was interrupted by a sudden roar. She jumped back when she realized it had come from the man in the cage.

"Silence! Why must you torture me so? Why must you persist in reminding me of her!" He was wild before her, heaving and shaking and snapping his eyes about.

"I'm sorry, monsieur, but what do you mean?"

"Leave, child," his voice came out defeated, a shadow of the angry ambience of before. "Leave," he turned towards her, "or I will make you live to regret it."

Empty as his threat was, Brigitte intrinsically felt he had not failed on his words before. The man she saw before her, caged, miserable, deformed – she understood his behavior and she did not hate him for it. She watched his bowed head curiously. Tentatively, she reached out a hand to his. When she made contact, he pulled away and hissed as if she had burned him.

"Oh, monsieur. I do not feel pity for you," her voice was quieter, almost conciliatory. "I wish you to be free. Free from here."

At this, Erik raised his head to look at her. He did not speak, but watched her. With the smallest of gestures, he beckoned her forth. Brigitte felt compelled forward before she was even aware of her feet. She found she was unable to look away from those eyes, so bright and green they almost crackled with intensity. She was not acutely aware of the mosquitoes buzzing at her head or the terrible smell of Erik's enclosure. She watched as he drew forward and summoned her still forth. He studied her and for the first time, Brigitte felt a cold shiver of fear down her spine.

"There can be no freedom for me." His voice was a low, guttural growl. He had seen the shroud of intimidation briefly light her eyes. Prepared for her insolence as it were, he could not help but be surprised at Brigitte's next words.

"Oh, yes, monsieur, there is." She nodded, a smile on her face, her bedraggled hair bouncing. "I will see to it."