Wow! I came home this afternoon to about 10 new reviews, so as promised, here's another chapter. Thank you to everyone who's reviewed.
A Darkness Shared
The sound of someone knocking quietly at her door woke Madame Giry. Getting out of bed, she shrugged into a dressing gown, wondering which of her charges had become ill in the middle of the night. She opened the door to find Christine Daaé standing there. "Mon Dieu! Christine, you are wet to the skin and nearly frozen! Get in here this instant and get warmed up."
Christine shook her head, her soaked tresses spattering water everywhere. "I can't, not now, and 'tis only snow. Please, Madame Giry, if you care for him at all, you will get dressed and help me."
The ballet mistress hesitated but a moment before slipping on her shoes and lighting her small hand lamp. "Come, child," she said, shutting the door to her rooms. "Take me to him."
Christine started down the hallway at a half-run, her sense of urgency enough that Madame Giry followed suit. "I left him in the chapel," Christine explained over her shoulder. "I didn't want to leave him so exposed but it was close and I needed to get the horses back without anyone seeing him."
At her mention of the chapel, Madame Giry recalled the memory she had confessed to the Vicomte of letting the devil's child into the opera house so many years ago. She hurried down the steps after the girl, listening to the story she spilled out breathlessly.
"I'm sorry to have disturbed you, but I didn't know anyone else I could trust and I can't make it all the way to his home by myself with him and I knew you cared for him once–long enough to bring him here–so I hoped you would at least remember that and help me now—"
"I never stopped caring, Christine," she found herself saying. "I just stopped being able to ease his pain–"
The young woman halted abruptly, turning to face Madame Giry, her eyes blazing. Before she could lambaste her, the ballet mistress finished what she had been about to say. "–Only love could do that, and the love of a surrogate sister wasn't enough. Only you can save him, Christine, only your love is strong enough to rescue him from his self-imposed prison."
Giving a little gasp, Christine covered her mouth with her hand, then continued down the stairs, but not before Madame Giry caught a glimpse of the tears in her eyes.
The chorus girl entered the darkened chapel, calling out softly, "Angel, I'm here. I've brought Madame Giry."
Turning her lamp up higher, she followed Christine into the room, startling when she heard a noise in the shadows. He was there, seated in one of the alcoves, leaning heavily against the wall, his complexion white. He turned his head toward her, blinking in the sudden light. Pain was etched into every line of his face. "Oh, Erik," she whispered, "what has he done to you?"
"It doesn't matter, Cecilié. I live, thanks to Christine." He reached out his hand, and Christine took it, the look on her face one of the purest joy.
"Are you ready, Angel?" she asked him.
"No," he answered honestly, "but it needs to be done." Holding on to Christine, he pushed off from the wall with his other hand, and rose slowly to his feet. She ducked under his arm, and he rested his weight across Christine's shoulders, as she picked up a satchel from the floor. Catching on, Madame Giry took his arm on the other side, and they made their way out of the chapel and down the long winding staircase into the depths of the opera house.
Several times Madame Giry asked him if he needed to rest, and each time he replied no, though the further down they went, the heavier he leaned on the two women. Finally they reached the lake and the boat. It took some effort, but they managed to get Erik into the gondola. He closed his eyes, the pain finally overcoming him. Pulling Christine aside, Madame Giry asked in a voice low enough that Erik would not hear, "Are you certain of this?"
Christine nodded. "I'm strong, and I think I remember the way. I can get us to his home."
She sighed. "That's not what I meant. Are you sure this is what you want? Your fiancé was here earlier, very worried about you. He made me promise that I would send word when you returned."
The girl turned pale at the mention of the Vicomte. "The Phantom was on the ground, defeated, unarmed, and I called for Raoul to stop, but still he attempted to kill my Angel. Whatever feelings I had for him, and I hesitate now to call them love, vanished in that moment he could not show mercy to a helpless man. Please hold off on sending word to the Vicomte until I ask you to."
"I will do as you request, but know that he will turn up here in the morning, and if he finds the horses have been returned he will stop at nothing until he finds you."
Christine bit her lip, and Madame Giry could see her latching onto and abandoning several plans, something she never would have thought the chorus girl capable of. "You've chosen well, Erik," she thought, "and I have underestimated her."
Finally, Christine seemed to reach a conclusion. "No one saw me leave the horses in the stable, I'm sure of it. If Raoul asks, you have not seen nor heard from me. I will write him a note explaining that I am in seclusion, grieving for my Angel, and I will leave it for you here, where the boat is usually tied up."
Madame Giry nodded. "That will work. And I will bring you clothes and food and anything else I think you'll need and leave them here as well." Christine started to get into the boat, but she stopped her, pulling the girl—no, the woman—she had thought of as a daughter into a hug. "Take good care of him, and yourself, my dear."
Giving her a smile that lit up the darkness, Christine answered, "I will," then kissed her on the cheek, stepped into the boat and pushed off from shore.
Madame Giry watched until she could no longer see the candle at the stern of the boat. She was overjoyed for Erik and Christine, believing they had found in each other what had been missing from both their lives for so many years. Yet the shadow of the Vicomte hung over them, and she feared that tragedy might still be lurking in the darkness.
It took some doing, but Christine finally mastered the art of guiding the gondola through the maze of pillars and channels in the underground lake. The trick was finesse, rather than strength, a hard push more often than not would make her overshoot the turns, forcing her to back up, which turned out to be far more difficult than going forward. Despite her strength from years of dance training, her shoulders ached and her arms were shaking by the time they reached the portcullis that separated the Phantom's lair from the rest of the lake.
Following her Angel's instructions, she managed to hit the underwater trigger to raise the gate, though it took several long minutes of poking blindly with the pole before she struck it. Guiding the little boat to shore, Christine jumped off, not caring that she landed knee-deep in the unexpectedly warm water. Tying the craft up, she helped her Angel out of the boat and up the stairs to his bedroom, letting go of him as he sat down on the edge of the black swan bed.
She ran a hand over his cheek, feeling the slight flush of fever under a thin sheen of sweat. Biting back the urge to tell him they should have remained at Dr. Jarred's, she unfastened his cloak. He batted her hand away gently. "I think I can still manage to undress myself," he said. "You need to get out of those wet clothes before you get sick as well. There are clothes and towels and such through that door." He pointed to a dark opening on the opposite side of the bed.
Lighting a candle from one of the burning gas jets on the wall, Christine entered what amounted to a large closet filled with clothing, both male and female. Bolts of cloth leaned against one of the walls, and a chest held needles, thread and notions. She realized with a start that her Angel had probably made everything he was wearing, as well as the wedding dress that adorned the mannequin in the other room.
Searching through the items hanging on rods along one wall, she found a set of men's black silk pajamas, Oriental in style with loose, wide-legged pants and a very long jacket that buttoned up the front. She imagined on a man as tall as her Angel the hem of the jacket would reach his knees. She found no nightgowns, however. A quick rifle through the drawers of one of the wardrobes produced towels, but nothing in the way of extra blankets or bedding. Obviously her Angel had never envisioned having an overnight guest, she thought sadly. Slipping rapidly out of her wet, filthy, bloodstained dress, she dried off then put on the top half of the men's pajamas. She had to roll up the sleeves, but the hem fell to mid calf, and Christine decided that was decent enough. Extraordinary circumstances called for extraordinary measures. Besides, he had already seen her ankles the night he had brought her here after the gala.
She entered the bedroom to find him struggling with his frock coat. Setting the pajama bottoms down on the bed, she helped her Angel slide the coat over his shoulders and off, then set to work on his vest buttons. He looked as if he would protest again, but Christine put a finger to his lips. "I know this is difficult, Angel, but you are not alone any longer. Let me help."
Emotion flickered across his face for a moment, and then he looked off to the side, trying to keep his composure. Finally, he nodded, and she attacked the buttons again. Once he was down to skin and gauze, Christine unwound the bandage to check his injury. The stitches were still intact, and the edges of the wound were only slightly pinker than the surrounding skin. Dr. Jarred had been kind enough to give her thorough instructions on what to look for, how to treat any possible infection, and the correct way to measure and inject the morphine he had given her before they had left his surgery. The satchel she had carried down with them into the lower levels contained bandages, carbolic acid, and other medical supplies, which she hoped she would never have to use.
"What's the diagnosis, Dr. Daaé?" he asked.
Christine smiled up at him as she rewrapped the bandage. "It looks good, for a nasty wound held together with fifty-nine stitches. Dr. Jarred may be a great surgeon, but his embroidery leaves much to be desired." Straightening up, she handed him the pajamas. "I'm going to get the bag with the medicine in it."
She took her time fetching the satchel from the boat, allowing him to finish undressing undisturbed. She meandered through his work area, taking a closer look at the miniatures of the opera house and the stacks of sketches and music. Almost every opera she could recall the company performing was represented in some way, from the sets to the arrangements to the costumes. She couldn't remember ever having seen a designer come to see Monsieur LeFevre. Perhaps the twenty thousand francs a month he had paid the Phantom had actually garnered the theater something in return besides freedom from "accidents".
"Christine…" Her name was called quietly, yet she could hear the undercurrent of pain in her Angel's voice.
Climbing the steps to the bedroom once more, she found he had managed to change into the pajamas and was again seated on the edge of the bed. "Are you ready for the morphine now?"
From his expression, she could tell he wasn't happy about relying on the drug. But he hadn't had a dose since the one Dr. Jarred had originally given him, and his discomfort was evident in the lines around his eyes and the way he clenched his teeth anytime he had to shift position. Need overcame his stubbornness, and he responded to her question with a curt nod.
Setting the bag of medicine down on the floor next to a small table, she took out a box that contained a tiny scale and a set of weights. Consulting the written instructions Dr. Jarred had included, she carefully weighed out one dose of powdered morphine, then dissolved it in water. Drawing the solution into the syringe, Christine turned to her Angel, and was confronted by the realization of where the shot needed to go. "Um," she stammered, feeling the blood rush to her face, "this is rather awkward…"
"I'll do it," he said gruffly, embarrassed as well, and took the needle from her. She turned her back, her heart clenching at his sharp intake of breath as she envisioned him plunging the syringe into his hip. "It's done," he told her a few seconds later, and she took the empty needle from him.
She began to put away the supplies she had gotten out when he said her name. Pausing, Christine looked over her shoulder at him. He removed his white mask, holding it out to her. She took it, setting it carefully on the table, her gaze never leaving his face. "I have something to show you," he said, his voice soft and sad. Christine thought she could hear a tinge of fear underlying his words.
Her Angel brought his hand up, touching the marred side of his face. "This isn't…this isn't all of it," he finally managed, and Christine felt tears of sympathy welling up her eyes.
Moving to kneel in front of him, Christine laid her fingers on his disfigured cheek below his. "You don't have to be afraid with me. I know what's in here," she told him, her right hand coming up to cover his heart.
A long shudder went through her Angel then he pulled off his black wig. Christine gave a little gasp, but she didn't flinch, didn't turn her face away from his. The bumpy, crimson, hairless and pitted skin extended halfway up the right side of his head, going back past his ear. His eyes searched her face, awaiting her response.
"Your hair's blond," she finally said, reaching up to touch the silky strands that grew in attractive disarray over the rest of his head. The color was rich and dark like old honey with highlights that glinted golden in the candlelight.
Her Angel made a strangled choking sound that Christine thought might be a sob, or laughter. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, "After everything that's happened today, still you manage to surprise me."
Getting to her feet, she kissed the top of his head gently. "I think it's time you got some more sleep." She helped him into the bed, pulling the blankets up over him. He stretched out on his right side, his arm tucked underneath his head.
Christine finished clearing up the supplies she had gotten out then went through the lair blowing out candles and turning the gas jets down low. When she returned to the bedroom, the Phantom's eyes were closed. She eyed the furs covering the floor critically. Soft as they were, they still covered stone, and with no blanket or pillow, she would be quite uncomfortable. If she was going to properly take care of her Angel, then she needed to be well rested.
Her gaze traveled back to the empty spot in the swan bed. She wasn't going to tell anyone and the chance of someone stumbling upon the hideaway just to witness her minor sin was unlikely. And it wasn't as if she hadn't heard the rumors circulating about Raoul and herself. After all, it was what was expected of an actress, wasn't it?
To hell with it. She had made her choice that morning in the graveyard. Climbing carefully into the bed, she laid down next to her Angel. In the faint light, with the deformed side of his face against the pillow, he looked as she had always imagined him, a brave, beautiful Angel, come to rescue her from her sad and too often lonely existence. Tears slid from her eyes into her hair as she realized she still thought of him that way.
His hand lay atop the sheets between them, and she interlaced her fingers with his, leaning in to kiss the soft skin under his left eye. "I love you, Angel," she breathed, and closing her eyes, she slept.