Aw, you came so close to breaking the 100 review mark on the last chapter. I have no doubt it'll happen with this one, as we are sitting on 98! Things begin to heat up in this chapter, and the plot takes a leap forward. Enjoy!
Waking Dreams
Raoul stared morosely into the cup of tea on the table before him. It had gone cold long ago. Even hot, it had done nothing to ease the knot in his stomach. Resting his elbows on the tabletop, he pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Why hadn't Dr. Jarred returned? Could Christine have truly made herself that sick grieving for that creature?
He shuddered, remembering the feel of his sword sliding though flesh, the initial bit of resistance and then the complete lack of it. He had stood there unmoving, unable to speak, seeing nothing but the spreading pool of blood against the snow. Christine's shouts had brought him back to reality. She was kneeling in that monster's blood, her hands pressing her scarf against his side, the crimson fluid staining her fingers. He didn't think he would ever forget the sight.
Leaping onto the back of his horse, he had taken off at a gallop but he was barely beyond the cemetery gates before he had to halt the animal. Sliding from its back, he had dropped to his knees, retching into the snow. He had gotten up then, remounted and continued to the police post. By the time he arrived, he had had convinced himself that he had done the right thing, had done what any man would do to protect a loved one. He had no reason to feel guilty. He didn't feel guilty. Except…if Christine died because of a chain of events he had set in motion….
His head hurt.
The sound of the door to the opera house's kitchen opening made Raoul raise his head. Madame Giry entered first, Dr. Jarred behind her. "How is Christine?" he asked anxiously.
Setting his medical bag down, the physician pulled out a chair from the table and seated himself. "Suffering from nervous exhaustion. She had not eaten all day, which made her dizzy and weak. I've ordered bed rest for at least the next week."
"And I will make sure she sticks to it," Madame Giry said from over by the stove.
"Thank God." Raoul ran a hand over his face. "When can I see her?"
A look passed between Madame Giry and the doctor, one Raoul found irritating. "What? What is it you're not telling me?" Madame Giry pointedly turned her back to him, banging the kettle down on the stovetop. "Dr. Jarred? Christine will be all right, won't she?"
The physician let out a long sigh. Finally, he said, "No one is ever truly 'all right' after what she's been through. You have to understand, Vicomte, that she's had a tremendous shock. Whatever you may think of the Phantom, for many years he was her best friend."
"But he was just a disembodied voice in the darkness who turned out to be some kind of freak!"
"That didn't matter to her!" Madame Giry shouted, whirling around to face him. "Christine saw past his face and into his heart. They would have been happy together if you had not come along and turned her head with your 'childhood sweethearts' story and your fine horses and your diamond rings. She was his life, and you took her away from him, then you killed him!" Bursting into tears, she left the room.
Raoul looked at Dr. Jarred, whose face mirrored the stunned expression Raoul felt on his own. He sighed, and rubbed a hand along the stubble on his chin. "Will Christine recover or not?"
The doctor shrugged, rising to pour his own cup of tea from the ingredients Madame Giry had gotten out before her unexpected departure. "I don't know." A strange, reflective look came over his face as he said, "She did everything she could to save him, and it was all for naught. She blames herself for his death, and that is a heavy burden to bear."
"So what should I do, then? How can I help her?" Raoul asked, frightened that his actions might have emotionally scarred Christine forever.
Taking a sip of his tea, Dr. Jarred appeared to think carefully about his answer before he spoke. "Give her time and space. Don't pressure her into seeing you if she's not ready. Whatever you thought of the Phantom doesn't matter. He was important to her, and so he should be important to you. If you find you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, then don't speak at all. And if she decides she never wants to see you again…."He didn't finish the sentence. Setting his cup down on the counter, he said, "I will check on her in the morning, and every couple of days after that. Now I must go locate Madame Giry."
After he left, Raoul laid his head down on the table and wept.
The Phantom woke to find his face wet with tears. He lay there in the darkness, his dream, the cause of his silent weeping, slowly fading.
He had been with Christine, alone in a great hall with a high ceiling and gilded columns. Mirrors lined both sides of the long room, and music was playing, though there was no orchestra he could see. They were dancing together, her hand in his, his arm around her waist and her other hand at his neck.
They whirled down the center of the room to a lively waltz, their footsteps echoing a strange rhythm in the vast, empty space. He took his gaze from Christine's beautiful face long enough to catch a glimpse of the hundred Christines and Angels that twirled in the mirrors. He almost didn't recognize the image looking back at him, for his face was perfect, no twisted features, no discolored skin, no mask. Stunned, he glanced down at Christine and found he was suddenly behind her eyes, gazing up at himself.
"This is how I see you," he heard her voice whisper. "This is how I've always seen you."
The tears began anew at the memory, and he turned his head toward her. She was lying on her side with her arm flung across his chest, her cheek pressed against his shoulder, eyes closed in slumber.
For a moment, he thought he was still dreaming until he reached up to trail his fingers across Christine's cheek. The sudden pain in his side reminded him that he was very much in the real world. He jerked in reaction and let out a hissed curse.
"Angel?" He had woken Christine.
"Go back to sleep," he told her. "Everything's fine."
Yawning, she rubbed at her eyes then rose up on one elbow and laid her palm against his forehead. "Fever's down. How do you feel?"
He could just make out her features in the dim light, the curve of her cheek, the start of a smile upon her lips. "Strangely happy to be in pain, because it means this is real, you are real…we…are real." Reaching up, he brushed back a strand of hair from her face.
She closed her eyes for a moment at his touch then opened them, whispering, "We are real…" She kissed him, dipping her head so that her lips touched his, warm and soft at first then seeking hungrily as he responded. He wrapped his hands in her hair, gently holding her still as he tasted her mouth, her cheeks, her eyelids, the soft skin of her throat. His injury forgotten, the Phantom went to roll them both over, but instead cried out sharply.
"Angel?"
"Damn it." His hand went to the bandage round his waist. It was wet. He swore again. "I think I'm bleeding," he told her.
Rising, Christine lit several candles then bent over him, helping him sit up. He submitted to her ministrations, sighing in frustration as she undid the bandage. "I hate this."
"I never would have guessed," she said wryly, glancing up at him, a smile on her face. Despite his irritation and pain, he couldn't help but smile back at her. "I think it's all right. Most of this is from before and is nearly dry. Doesn't look like it's bleeding now." Picking up a bottle from the table, she poured part of its contents onto a clean piece of cloth and washed the wound area with it.
It stung. His eyes widened and he twisted away from her involuntarily.
Christine apologized, laying a fresh piece of gauze over the stitches then wrapping a new bandage around him. She straightened, yawning again. "I wonder what time it is." Reaching for his watch on the bedside table, she said, "It's three o'clock, but is it morning or afternoon?"
"Does it matter?" he asked.
She raised her head, and he was caught in her gaze, seeing everything she felt for him shining in her eyes. For a moment, the Phantom forgot to breathe. "No, it doesn't matter," Christine answered, her hand going to his cheek.
He closed his eyes and leaned into the caress, feeling her lips on his forehead, his temple, the place where his right eyebrow should have been…It was too much for him, and he pulled away, shaken. Her confusion was evident on her face, that and the fear that she had in some way injured him. "I'm sorry, Angel," she apologized. "I didn't mean to—"
The Phantom cut her off with a shake of his head. "You didn't. I just…it's just…." The damn tears began to burn in his eyes again, and he had to look away, struggling to keep what little of his dignity he had left. Christine was blessedly silent while he composed himself, her hand having moved from his face to gently grasp his arm. When he turned back, he found her simply watching him, the love in her eyes undimmed. There were not enough words in the world to express what he felt in that moment, so he cupped her face in his hands, kissing her softly, reverently.
When they broke apart, Christine whispered, "Oh, Angel—" Whatever else she might have said was lost in the sound of her stomach rumbling. She gave an embarrassed little squeak then laughed, and the Phantom found himself joining in for a few seconds until the action made his side begin to ache. She fussed over him for a moment when she saw him wince, but let him be when she determined it wasn't serious.
"We should probably eat," she told him, and she left the bedroom for a minute, returning with a basket, which she set on the bed. From it she created a picnic of sorts for them, bread and cheese, slices of cured meat and dried fruit. They ate quietly, both of them still tired from the events of the previous day. The Phantom decided it was probably three in the morning, otherwise Cecilié and the good Dr. Jarred would have returned to check up on them by now.
Food consumed, Christine blew out the candles and crawled back in bed with him, making herself comfortable tucked in against his right side. "You are very forward, Miss Daaé," he teased gently.
Rolling onto her stomach, she raised up on her elbows to look him in the eyes. "By virtue of necessity, sir. You are far too much the gentleman to come right out and tell me you would like my arms around you. I'm sparing us the trouble and just doing what we both know we want." She gave him a cheeky grin and kissed his shoulder.
He shook his head, not knowing whether to laugh, cry, or kiss her back. Christine was no longer the timid, vulnerable child he had loved for so long. She was someone he wasn't sure he knew, a woman forged of flame and steel, of tenderness and courage. The Phantom thought he might love her more than the girl who had once hung on his every word. "Where did you come from?" he asked in a near whisper, his voice breaking.
Somehow she knew what he meant. "From your love. And from all the time we wasted hiding from each other." She looked away from him for a moment, and he could see the glittering track of a tear as it slid down her cheek. "When I thought you were going to die, both in the cemetery and yesterday, I promised myself that I would not waste any more time doing things the 'proper' way. Fear kept us apart for so long, denied us years of happiness, Angel. I do not want to be unhappy for another second, if it is within in my power to ensure that I am not."
She lay down beside him again, resting her head against his shoulder, her hand on his chest. The Phantom brought his hand up to cover hers, lacing their fingers together. "So, you are happy here with me?" he asked.
"Happier than I've ever been in my life, I think," she answered, "though what would make me truly ecstatic would be for you to be well, and for us to be far away from Paris and Raoul."
He found himself asking a question he knew he did not want the answer to. "Were you happy with the boy?"
Christine stirred beside him, moving closer, her fingers tightening around his. "I thought I was. Now I realize I was a bird in a cage, settling for beautiful trappings simply because I had never seen the sky. With you, all the heavens are my world, and I am free to fly."
The Phantom's heart beat faster at her words, but he could not let the matter drop. "Are you certain of that? I am afraid I have lived here so long I have forgotten there are bars to my cage, but it is my prison nonetheless."
Letting go of his hand, Christine touched his cheek, turning his face toward her. "The cage door is open, Angel. Spread your wings and fly away with me. If we do not, then we will end up with the cat here in the cage with us."
"I know," he replied quietly, but the knowledge that they were in danger could not still the fear fluttering in his chest every time he thought of having to leave the opera house.
Christine's thumb brushed across his lower lip, effectively ensnaring his attention again. "I'm frightened, too, Angel, believe me. But we can make this work; you have to have faith in that. We can find another opera house somewhere in the world in need of our talents. I can only sing and dance, but you…think of all the money a theater would save by hiring you! They would not need a composer, an architect, a costume designer, a vocal coach, a baritone—"
He laughed. "Christine, even I could not do all those jobs at once!"
She leaned in and kissed the tip of his nose. "I know, but I got you to laugh, didn't I?"
Oh, how he loved her. To have her smile at him like that every day, to feel her touch, her kiss…the Phantom would do anything, including leaving the only home he had ever known. "I love you, Christine. I will fly away with you, as far as you want to go."
She rewarded his vow with a smile and a kiss then laid her head back down on his shoulder and closed her eyes.
He lay awake a while longer, plotting.
"Madame Giry, wait!"
Cecilié paused as she came out of André and Firmin's office, caught red-handed. She shuffled the item she was not supposed to have in her possession to the bottom of the stack of large envelopes she carried. "Yes, Vicomte, what can I do for you?"
"Please, Madame Giry, I wish to see Christine." His bloodshot eyes pleaded with her, and Cecilié felt a pang of sympathy for him. He looked as though he had not slept in days, nor bathed, and she recalled he had been wearing the same clothes yesterday.
It had been nearly two weeks since the Vicomte and the Phantom had fought at the cemetery. Erik was healing, albeit slowly, using what little time he did not spend resting on writing numerous letters that Cecilié posted for him. Christine had completely recovered from her participation in the events and was spending her hours hiding from Raoul and spoiling Erik. The girl thought nothing of wasting an afternoon lying in bed with him, watching him sleep!
Cecilié closed her eyes for a moment. She knew Christine was putting off meeting with Raoul because she dreaded hurting his feelings. "I'm sorry, Vicomte, but she still refuses to see anyone besides myself, Meg or Dr. Jarred. I would gladly pass along a note to her, if you have one."
Raoul frowned. "No, no, I don't."
"I'm sure Messrs. Firmin and André would not mind if you borrowed pen and paper from them." She inclined her head in the direction of the office. "I shall take it to her when I return from delivering these." She showed him the packages in her hands.
"Yes, please do that," he replied and headed toward the managers' office.
She watched him go, shaking her head. It would only be so long before he tired of Christine's stalling and went looking for her. It was time she met with him and told him it was over. Ducking around a pillar, Cecilié extracted the score to Don Juan she had just pilfered from the managers' office from the stack of envelopes. Quickly, she slipped it underneath her shirtwaist, hoping no one would notice her straighter than usual posture before she could sneak down to the cellars with it.
Going down the hallway, she pushed open the door to the backstage area of the opera house, nearly hitting Christine. "Ah! What are you doing here? Raoul is in the managers' office at this very moment!"
Frowning, Christine said, "I wanted a proper bath then I was going to get supper for us from the kitchen."
"Well, hurry up then, before he sees you." The door began to open again, and both Cecilié and Christine heard Raoul's voice just outside.
"Yes, André, I'll tell her we're all anxiously awaiting her return to the stage."
Christine's eyes grew wide as she glanced frantically around for a place to hide. Thinking quickly, Cecilié pushed her behind the slowly opening door. "Ah, Vicomte, you have that note for me?"
"Right here." He handed her an envelope. "Please, Madame Giry, will you tell her how much I miss her, that no matter how she sick she is, even though she does not want to see me, I still love her?"
Cecilié could see Christine biting her knuckles behind the door to keep from making any noise. "Yes, yes, of course I'll tell her. In fact, I will make her write you in return. It's not fair to keep you in the dark this way."
"Thank you, Madame Giry. I am in your debt." With that, he returned to the hallway.
She pressed her back to the door as it closed, giving Christine a stern look. "You must write to him, Christine, now, this minute. It is time for this business to end. The sooner we see the back of him, the better for all of us."
Tears glistening in her eyes, Christine nodded. "You're right. I've been avoiding meeting him not because I'm afraid I can't break our engagement, but because I'm afraid he won't take no for an answer. Raoul does not take failure well."
Cecilié began walking toward her office, Christine trailing behind. Once there, she handed the girl paper and pen. Scrawling a quick note, Christine folded it and handed it to Cecilié. "Good girl. Now go get your bath and the food. I'll probably see you downstairs later." Withdrawing the sheet music from her dress, she showed it to Christine.
"You got it? Oh, he'll be so happy!" Impulsively, she hugged the older woman and gave her a kiss on the cheek. With a bounce in her step, she left the office.
Shaking her head, Cecilié watched her go, then unfolded the note to the Vicomte. It was short and to the point.
Meet me on the roof tonight at 7 o'clock.