A/N: Sorry about the long wait, folks. I am now officially active in three fandoms (POTO, Lord of the Rings, and Master & Commander), with a fourth (Scarlet Pimpernel) coming soon.
I just thought I'd whip this off between volleys of relatives. Happy Yule or Christmas or Chanukah or whatever!
Please see bio page for disclaimer.
The next morning, Christine was ready shortly after daybreak, and slipped silently downstairs, leaving Raoul still asleep. Her destination was the small music room that held Raoul's and Devon's violins (one old and much-used, the other gathering dust), Angelique's harp, and a sweet-toned piano, along with many other pieces of musical paraphernalia. Christine sat down at the piano, and began warming up softly. As her disused singing voice came back into play, she relaxed, even began tapping her foot to keep time. By the time Mrs. Wetherby came to get her for breakfast, she was happily running through what she could remember of Faust, swaying back and forth.
She ate breakfast normally enough, swallowing a bowl of porridge in between ordering Angelique to get Socrates of the table and out of her food and assuring Meg, who had stayed the night, that the rat was totally harmless.
"We'd best be goin', if we wants ta get there on time," Mr. Wetherby said, already dressed in his coachman's uniform.
"Very well. Christine, Meg, are you ready?" Raoul asked, pushing himself back from the table and getting up.
"I'll wait in the carriage," Meg said, and hurried out.
"Goodbye, Devie," she said fondly, kissing Devon on top of his sandy head. He endured it with a screwed-up face, and scrubbed furiously at his hair afterward.
"Be good, sweetheart," she whispered to Angelique, a tear or two misting her eyes.
"See you this evening, Mama," Angelique said, giving her mother a weird look.
"Of course you will," Christine said distractedly, then she and Raoul left, leaving a sudden emptiness behind.
"Something's up," Devon whispered to his sister, while Mrs. Wetherby cleared the dishes, dropping two or three. Muttering to herself, she went to fetch a broom and dustpan.
"Of course something's up. Mama called me 'sweetheart,' Papa hasn't let her out of his sight, and Mrs. Wetherby is nervous," Angelique returned softly as the children scurried out of the room.
They ended up in Devon's newly cleaned room, hiding below the windowsill and watching the carriage pull out of sight.
"So Papa is pretty worried, Mama is acting definitely odd, and Auntie Meg is antsy," Devon mused.
"Why do you say Papa is worried? He looked pretty normal to me," Angelique argued.
"He looked like that time I went to the hospital after that one bomb blew out half my room," the eleven-year old said.
"Shut up, I've got an idea," Angelique said abruptly.
"That's a first," Devon muttered, but kept quiet after that.
"I've got it!" the teenager cried after a little thought. "She's afraid of the Opera Ghost!"
Devon made a disbelieving noise. "That's only one of Mama's fairy tales, idiot. Besides, he's supposed to be dead, remember?"
They had been told that Christine and Raoul had met as children, fallen in love, and married when the Opera House was destroyed in a "freak accident." All they knew of Erik was a series of fairy tales concerning the exploits of the supposedly fictional Opera Ghost, who was supposed to have been killed by a courageous singer.
"Oh, yes," Angelique said then fell silent, stymied for ideas. Her silence was broken a few minutes later by a frantic squeaking, the crash of dishes breaking, and Mrs. Wetherby yelling "STUPID BLOODY VERMIN!" Angel went downstairs to atone for her pet's crimes, but Devon sat at the window for a little while, pondering the Opera Ghost and his parents' marital history. This got boring after a while, so he set to work with gunpowder, springs, and another of his sister's powder boxes.
Christine shifted nervously in her seat as the carriage rumbled through the streets of Paris.
She was excited to see how Andre and Firmin had refurbished the Opera Populaire, but still… Christine looked down, lost in memories of an Angel and a Phantom.
Raoul smiled at her and took her hand, and hummed the first few bars of their song. Christine smiled and relaxed a bit, remembering that snowy night on the roof.
"We're 'ere, sir, ma'am," Mr. Wetherby called back from the driver's seat as they pulled up in from of the new opera house.
"Good God," Raoul muttered, and Christine looked horror-struck. The fine, old Gothic building she remembered so fondly had been distorted almost beyond recognition. Every possible surface blazed with gold leaf, and superfluous spires, sculptures, and turrets abounded. There was even a garish minaret or two stuck haphazardly on.
"Who knows what the inside will look like?" Christine wondered as Mr. Wetherby officiously opened her door. Raoul helped her out.
"You don't want to know," Meg replied sadly, getting out after her.
"You're sure you don't want me to come with you?" Raoul asked for what seemed the hundredth time.
"No, I'll be fine. Really," she said, trying to reassure herself as much as him.
"Good luck, angel," he whispered as she left. Mr. Wetherby beamed proudly. She was a good, plucky gel; she'd be all right.
She smiled, kissed Raoul on the cheek, and swept into the Grand Foyer with as much confidence as she could muster.
It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been. There were more curlicues on the stairs and a few more nudes than necessary, but essentially the same. "This isn't so bad," she commented with relief as they hurried towards the theater itself.
"You haven't seen the half of it. Brace yourself," Meg said, and opened the door. They were engulfed in a blaze of gold. Everything had gold on it somewhere; the seats were covered in cloth-of-gold, the carpet was golden, and the heavy brocade drapes for the boxes were embroidered with gold thread. On the other hand, the showy fresco on the ceiling depicted the four Seasons as voluptuous, scantily clad women frisking around the horned Pan and simpering outrageously.
"Ye gods," Christine murmured.
"You get used to it, in time," Meg said, and led her up to the stage.
"Ah! The great Madame de Changy has graced us with her presence," a sarcastic female voice blared from the stage. "Do you know what time it is, madmoiselle?" Carlotta Gudicelli demanded.
"Ten-fifteen, Madame Gudicelli. I apologize for my lateness." Christine stated, ascending to the stage itself.
"Don't let it happen again, Marguerite. Are you ready to begin?" M. Reyer demanded abruptly, shoving a script into her hands. She had forgotten the conductor's way of addressing everybody by his or her character's name.
"Ready when you are, maestro. Where is Faust?" she said civilly as yelling broke out backstage. An intense-looking Spaniard strode on, dressed as Faust.
"Where is my Marguerite?" he demanded in a slightly accented tenor. He was tall and slender, with olive skin, midnight-black hair, and flashing black eyes. She couldn't help noticing how full and red his lips were when they parted to reveal even, white teeth.
"Christine de Changy, senor," she said, putting on her best stage smile and extending a hand.
"Carlos Martinez. An honor, senorita," he purred, bending low to kiss her hand. In spite of herself, Christine giggled and blushed like a chorus girl.
She was interrupted from her introduction by a familiar voice. "Out of the way, prima donna! Dancers coming through! Meg Giry, go get changed this minute," Madame Giry shouted, trotting out at the head of her ballerinas. She gave a thin smile and inclined her head, then went back to yelling at her girls. The formidable ballet mistress had a few more grey hairs and fine lines spiderwebbed from the corners of her eyes, but she still moved as vigorously and lithely as ever, and was just as quick to rap an imperfect dancer with her cane.
A long day of practice followed. Everybody besides her was practically ready, so she was whirled from the costumers to choreographers to M. Reyer while the others hung around. She found M. Martinez (who had asked her to call him Carlos) an enchanting and competent Faust, and the general opinion was that she would make a credible Marguerite.
Christine had been on edge all day, just waiting to see that death's head or hear maniacal laughter, but the rehearsal was routine. She was continually jumping at shadows, and Madame Giry actually had to hit her with her cane once to make her pay full attention.
At the end of an exhausting day, Christine waited outside with Carlos and Meg for her carriage. When it arrived, she collapsed into it gratefully, barely aware of Carlos' "Adios, Senorita Christine! I look forward to tomorrow!" or Raoul's muttered "stupid actors".
Raoul was about to ask her whether Erik had make himself known, when he felt a soft weight on his shoulder. Christine had fallen straight asleep after her nerve-wracking, thankfully phantom-free day.
So I was wondering, should I continue with in-fic reviewer responses, or use the new e-mail thing, whatchacallit. Leave your vote along with a review, please.
C. Pitney: I looooove those long responses, I have to say again. It's nice to have someone to point out weaknesses as well as strengths. It's the only was any of us grow as writers. Stay sweet.
Phantom Hamster: I'm glad that not all E/C shippers are spittle-emitting maniacs. I guess some R/C shippers are like that too. I'm glad that everyone likes it.
Lindaleriel: Yes, I am on Gaia. Are you? I pride myself on stopping the horror that was the "101 Ways to Kill Raoul" thread. I haven't seen you though. What's your name over there? Also, we are the only Raoul-loving jurors on Star Sheep's Legally Fopped. We don't have a real good chance of winning, but it's a fight worth fighting.