Steph- I've gotten a few comments about making my chapters longer – I will do my best to do so. :) They seem long in Word, and then I upload them here and they suddenly are short!
Circe – that was a good point about tension in Chap. 9. I amended it accordingly. And no I haven't really put an age to Silvia…in my head I imagine she is in the 20-25 age range. :) A note for her for this chapter – she isn't meant to be a shrinking violet, but also I'm trying to write realistically and so, having just been accosted, she is a bit frightened and rather of the "wimp" variety at the moment. Hopefully it doesn't jar.
He could remember her scream after she had dashed his mask from his face, and then her terrified silence. His mind recalled the kiss she gave him, from lips she had shared with Raoul, and he could feel the weight of the ring in his hand when she had returned it to him. She had never relinquished the pieces of his soul she had taken, though. Even as he uttered those last desperate words, tears dancing down his face, on his knees before her – even as he had said "Christine, I love you" – even then she had regarded him only with distant pity.
And she had gifted him with his ring, as if it had been a better act to return to him after the kiss and raise the dying hope within him and to give him back the dainty circle of gold rather than to drop the cursed thing into the depths of the lake. As if he would ever have use for it again. As if seeing her after the burn of her lips upon his own would not inspire a thousand fantasies, a thousand hopes of her having second thoughts, fantasies and hopes that she would ultimately crush.
His brain was deluged with memories that he could not dismiss nor escape; his thoughts writhed with the pain of recalling her again. He had achieved a state of blessed numbness in the months since her departure, of beautiful unfeeling. Until the song some few nights ago, to which his ears and his mind had hearkened. The voice had been much like Christine's, soaring and pure and inspired, and once the memory of her was evoked the demons of his recent past had run rampant.
Through the haze of misery and anger that shadowed his senses he heard her name.
I am not Christine.
The voice echoed and echoed, piercing the fog. Behind it came more words: I am not…! You are not hurting her, by hurting me!
He did not understand them at the first. Erik forced his eyes to see, forced his mind from its dark paths and looked on the sight before him. The girl whose voice had awoken the fire inside of him was caught within his grip, her delicate chin held between his tapered fingers, her arm bent nearly to the breaking point behind her. Tears were drowning her cheeks, and her eyes were closed.
With a shudder of revulsion he let her go. "My God," he whispered, collapsing into the chair behind him.
She appeared not to have heard, fleeing instead to the opposite side of the room, cradling her wounded arm. Bruises were already beginning to manifest beneath the alabaster skin, dark blemishes that would mar her beauty. Erik noted the effects of his hands shudderingly, remembering what had driven Christine to hide in her room many a time during her tenure with him.
He had a stronger capacity for fury than any other emotion, something he had never regretted nor felt shame over in his early years. Indeed, he had used it to his benefit, had even enjoyed the results of it: the murder of his gypsy keeper, the pleasure of the sultana in Persia, his revenge upon the prying Buquet.
But Christine had planted a seedling of doubt within his mind – doubt that giving in to anger was ever the preferable option. And a worser doubt – doubt that his horrifying appearance had been the sole cause of her leaving him. He had wondered many times after that last night, when the lovers had gone from his lair and from Paris entirely, if there was something different he could have done. Had he resisted the temptation to become her Angel of Music, would she have been open to his approach? And if he had driven away the urge to rid the world of his rivals for her affection, would she still be at his side, allowing him to coax divine music from her throat and accepting the love he had tried to heap upon her?
The mind often turned to what ifs, as if there was something comforting in living out a fantasy that had no hope of ever being true.
Shaking himself from the grip of the past, he slanted a glance in the direction of the young singer. Her cheeks were wet with tears but they no longer leaked from her eyes, and she was watching him warily. There was little she could do to escape if he came at her again, and she knew it as well as he did, but nonetheless she watched him as if to avoid an attack. It was a look he might otherwise have been pleased to see in her eyes – fear at his presence – but the weight of so many past sins sat heavily on his shoulders and he wondered suddenly if it was worth it.
And then he recalled the managers and their vow to capture him, and knew that he had to keep her under his thumb. If he gave an inch, there was little question that she would run to them with the news of his existence and the hunt for his head would recommence. It had been a difficult time of it after Christine had left, and for many days he had lived in the night-dark tunnels surrounding the lake, only able to watch as his house was ravaged and destroyed. It had been a long time before his hunters had given up on their quarry, and he did not desire to live like that again.
"I apologize," he finally offered, in a voice stiff and formal. Standing, he bent his steps towards her until he stood at the foot of her bed. "You must take care not to anger me, little one."
He had said such words to Christine, at that time laying the blame for his anger at her feet. He knew better now.
Sitting on the edge of her bed, he extended his hands and beckoned to see her wounded arm. Her eyes were wide, her bosom rising and falling heavily as she drew in frenzied breaths. As he sought for her arm, she jerked back, retreating farther into the corner, scorning his touch. Her limbs shook noticeably.
Unwilling to force her, he instead retreated behind a wall of coldness. "As you wish," he said aloud, grimly, rising from her bed. "Be sure to ask Madame Pericot to sew sleeves onto the Margeurite gown. Bruises are not becoming on an opera diva."
Her mouth fell open, as if she had not considered that aspect of his assault. He turned away from her reaction and made for his exit. Efficiently he maneuvered the panel within the wall that had once been the door behind Christine's huge, heavy mirror, disappearing into the darkness of the underground.
Silvia followed him with her eyes, her emotions a confused jumble of anger, shame, and pity. She could not move the arm he had bent behind her, and sought for a story to provide Madame Pericot with when requesting the costume additions. Would a fall from her bed have caused such a mess of bruises? She did not think so, but could think of no tale that would be an improvement.
Her face was little better, although his fingers had only depressed into the skin far enough to leave red marks, impermanent. Even so, her jaw ached. All of her ached. Her chest was sore from heaving in air, her toes smarted from the weight they had taken. Little wonder that Christine had taken pains to leave Paris and its immediate vicinity.
She noted abruptly that her fingers were still trembling and fisted her hands to still them. With him gone it was an easier task to force the fear from her system and allow calm to wash over her. In the past she would have hummed herself into peace. No longer.
The candles had burnt themselves down, their white wax pooling in the holders beneath them. Darkness crept on wingéd feet, waiting to overtake the room when the flames failed. Silvia had not realized the small chamber had once belonged to Chrisine. No hints of her existence nor mementos of her time at the Opera remained anywhere within the small area, no pictures left behind nor possessions forgotten.
It was disconcerting to know the history of her chamber. Briefly she considered petitioning the managers for a change of rooms, but she had no desire to trouble them. They had enough on their plate as it was, for only yesterday a ballerina had snapped an ankle and needed replacing with all due haste.
Sleep came slowly, for the world of dreams was reluctant to welcome one whose thoughts spun so rapidly. Only when she had abandoned her contemplation of the Phantom and begun to count the hours until her debut did peace, finally, steal over her.
………………………………………………………………………………………………
A note was at her bedside when she rose the following morning. In the blood red wax that sealed it was imprinted a grinning skull. The text within was written in a careful script, as if the author had labored over each letter. The ink was as red as the wax, and bled over the page.
You will sing for me this evening.
That was all it said – all it needed to say. Silvia knew who had written it. She tried not to imagine how or when it had been delivered, tried not to wonder if he had gazed in tempting cruelty at her prone form before departing. She shivered as a sudden chill took her, knowing the Phantom would see to her obedience of his command if she did not follow through voluntarily. And the former promised to be a harrowing experience.
Her voice was unsteady that day, frustrating M. Reyer and her fellow singers. She found herself apologizing more than once for an off-key note or missed entrance. Madame Pericot gazed at her sympathetically from where she was tending to the costumes of the company, seeming to recognize that something was off-balance. Madame Giry studied her with cold curiosity.
Silvia nearly wept with relief when rehearsals were finally halted for the day. She probably would have succumbed to tears had she been allowed to return to her room. But the diminutive assistant seamstress plucked her sleeve and begged her to follow her to Madame Pericot's workroom, wherein she found both the head seamstress and the two managers.
The latter were smiling at her in condescending benevolence. She curtsied and waited to be informed of what was going on.
"You will be presented to the patrons and guests of the opera after your first performance, my dear," Andre volunteered, smiling like a proud father. Or one whose horse had just taken first prize in a race.
"They will all be very pleased to make the acquaintance of one who sings like an angel," Firmin added, and Silvia dropped her gaze in a graceful blush at the compliment. "You must, therefore, be arrayed in attire fit for an empress, for what opera diva would allow herself to look the lesser of the pair?" He chuckled at his own joke and indicated Madame Pericot. "If you will, madame."
Leaving her in the seamstress' hands, the two managers bid her farewell and departed.
Two hours later she was holding in a breath as Madame Pericot expertly reinforced the seam along her ribcage. The majority of the dress had been constructed in the past few weeks, and needed only a fitting to finish it. Although truth be told, Madame Pericot had come very close to sewing it without error the first time around. Silvia was astonished at the near-perfect fit, and said so.
"I appreciate the kindness, madame," the seamstress protested, "but I cut the fitted pieces to match your Margeurite costume, so I mustn't take too much credit."
Silvia tutted, insisting the woman wove masterpieces. The material of the dress was the sullen red of a bruised heart, boned throughout the bodice and flowing in a waterfall of fabric from her waist to the floor. The neckline displayed the long column of her throat and her bosom to their advantage, and the sleeves were long and fitted.
It wants only a necklace of garnets, she thought silently, although she expected no such thing. The material itself must have cost a fortune. And as it was, tiny glittering stones were sewn at all of the hems, beckoning the light to their surfaces and casting it away again in sparks of fire.
"There you are, petite." Madame Pericot straightened and stepped back, admiring her. "It is finished. Have a care with it – you must keep it in your wardrobe until the day of the performance. I'd be afraid of it disappearing into the hands of one of the ballet rats or choristers if I stored it in here." She laughed softly.
Silvia nodded, stepping wordlessly from the small platform on which she had stood to submit to Madame Pericot's ministrations. She felt like a queen. An empress. A goddess even. Determination welled beneath her breast to astound the audience who came to see her, and then amaze them again with her wit and kindness after the performance.
Laughing wryly at herself as she fell back to earth again, she took her leave of Madame Pericot and hurried to her rooms. While the red dress might feel like armor – it still felt as if it girded her in security and confidence – in the end it would be up to her to live up to the standards of the society lords and ladies who would come to see her.
Deftly she turned the knob of her door and eased it open, stepping inside the gloomy chamber in which only the dim gaslight glowed. She deposited the clothing she had worn to practice on her bed, reveling still in the feel of the red dress as she went about the room to light the candles.
"Come." The words drifted to her from the now-open panel in her wall. "Come and sing for me," he beckoned with his voice. She turned to face him.
He stood in the light of the candles, but said no more. His arm was frozen, outstretched, intended as an invitation. His eyes reflected the light but beneath that glimmer they conveyed some raw emotion – awe, perhaps, or disbelief.
She had forgotten the singing appointment until that moment, but there was nothing to be done except obey. Quietly she went to him, and solemnly she placed her hand upon his arm. The touch seemed to jolt him from whatever stupor he was experiencing, and he tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow and drew her close to him. "You are a vision," he said, the gravelly quality in his voice skittering along her spine.
They stood thus for an uncomfortable moment, her hand on his arm, her head tilted so that her eyes could look into his. And then he spoke again, cleaving the tension.
"Come – give me a taste of the Opera Faust."