Here's the next chapter. I don't know if I will be able to update this weekend, as I am going out of town, and am not sure what if any internet access I will have. Enjoy!
Meetings
Christine waited until the rest of the dancers had all gone to lunch before she made her way down the hallway to La Carlotta's dressing room. The door was open, but she knocked out of courtesy, stifling her urge to giggle at the sudden thought of her Angel spying on Carlotta through the mirror.
The diva was lounging on a sofa, her white poodle on her lap, the black one chewing on a slipper on the floor next to her. "Jes, who is eet?" she called out, not bothering to look.
"Christine Daaé, Signora."
Having just taken a sip of champagne, La Carlotta sputtered and choked at Christine's name. Her maid swiftly handed her a handkerchief, and the diva blotted her chin before turning around. "Jou! Why jou want to see me, eh? Jou think jou going to take my place tomorrow night? I don't care what your lover the Vicomte thinks but I will be singing! Not jou!"
Entering the dressing room, Christine gave Carlotta her best curtsy. "No, Signora, I do not want to take your place, tomorrow or any other night. And the Vicomte is not my lover."
Carlotta stuck her lips out in a pout, twirling her wineglass in her fingers. "Why jou not want to sing anymore?"
Tired of holding her curtsy, Christine sat down on a footstool. The black poodle immediately jumped into her lap and began licking her hand. "I want to sing, Signora, but you are the star of the Opera Populaire. If I want the kind of successful career you have, I must seek a position with another opera house."
The diva seemed to consider that, taking a swallow of her wine. "So why jou telling me this?"
"Because I would beg your advice. You have sung all over Europe, while I have never been outside Paris. I had hoped you would tell me of the great theaters you've performed in, and of the people there. I would like to go somewhere I will be appreciated, and where I will be safe. I have heard stories, Signora, about theater owners and managers who would think nothing of taking advantage of an orphan such as me, alone in the world with no one to protect her."
"And jou would be right to believe such rumors. Men are pigs. Pah!" She waved her now empty glass and her hairdresser filled it at once. "So, I answer jour questions, and jou leave here."
"Yes, Signora. I was thinking of your home country of Italy. I hear it is so beautiful, with many great opera houses. So many wonderful operas were created there." She gave Carlotta a starry-eyed, dreamy look.
"Ah, jes. La Scala, the Teatro Comunale in Bologna, the Teatro Del L'Opera in Roma, the Gran Teatro La Fenice. I have sung on all their stages, some as a chorus girl, some as la diva. About which do jou wish to know?" She waved her hand in an extravagant gesture, sloshing wine onto the carpet.
"Oh, Venice, city of canals. I've seen paintings of it at the Louvre. It looks so wonderful, like a fairy tale. I would die to be able to live and sing there." She leaned forward eagerly, hanging on Carlotta's next words.
The singer sniffed disdainfully. "Fenice, ha. Jou can do better than Fenice. Signor Donato, the owner, he is rich as sin and as ugly too. Horrible, horrible man, he is deaf as a stone. I audition for him once. I give the best audition in my life, and he hire someone else. He says I sing the notes beautifully, but I have no passion." She tossed her head, snorting. "Can jou imagine that? I, who am the most passionate about everything!"
Christine frowned in sympathy. "Well, I most certainly will not apply there, then." Having gleaned the information she wanted, she forced herself to listen to another fifteen minutes of Carlotta's theater stories. Finally Christine set the poodle aside and got to her feet. "Thank you so much, Signora. You have given me much to think about."
"Jes, jou need any more help, any more advice, jou come see Carlotta, eh?"
"Of course." Giving a little bow, Christine left the dressing room, resisting the urge to skip down the hallway.
As she crossed the empty stage on the way back to the rehearsal hall, she heard a familiar voice whisper her name. "Angel?" she hissed back, alarmed that he was upstairs. Again the voice called to her. It was coming from the orchestra pit. Walking to the edge of the stage, she looked down. A hand beckoned to her from under the stage. "Are you insane?" she asked, but climbed carefully down into the pit anyway.
The Phantom was waiting for her in the shadows, a mischievous smile on his face. "I am quite insane." He lifted Christine off her feet in a hug. "Insanely happy." Setting her down, he gave her a kiss that did amazing things to her insides. He let go of her, but she put her hand on the back of his neck, drawing him in for a second, deeper kiss.
When they finally separated, he sat down on a chair, pulling her onto his lap. She gave a little cry of surprise, but wrapped one arm around his neck and ran the other hand over his cheek. "So just why are you in such a mood?" she asked. "What did Dr. Jarred tell you?"
Her Angel made a growling noise and nipped at her throat. "He says that I will soon be completely well. And he has agreed to attend our wedding, as my best man."
"Oh, Angel," she sighed, hugging him once more, knowing how much courage it must have taken him to ask for the favor. "You see, the world isn't so horrible after all."
"Perhaps not." He pressed his lips to the bare skin of her shoulder, making her shiver. "I had forgotten how delectable you look in your tutu." His fingers slid under her hair at the nape of her neck, tracing sensual little patterns over her flesh.
Christine leaned her forehead against his shoulder, reveling in the feel of his hands on her, in the joy she could sense suffusing his whole being. "Cecilié is going to go see the priest tonight, so hopefully we should have a wedding date soon. Though I sense it will not be soon enough for you unless it is five minutes from now."
He laughed then lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes. "Tristan has assured me that the chances of our children being cursed at birth as I was are virtually none. That is why I am so happy."
She touched his face again, tracing the outline of his lips with her fingers. "You know that did not matter to me, but I am glad your worries have been erased." He nibbled at her fingertips as she said, "I have good news for you as well. I have spoken to La Carlotta regarding Signor Donato. According to her, he would not know true talent if it bit him. As we are speaking of La Carlotta's opinion, I think we can safely say that Signor Donato is a man of exceptional taste and musical knowledge."
"But whether he is open-minded enough to employ a freak of nature is still unknown," the Phantom replied, a tinge of bitterness coloring his words.
Christine held him tightly, blinking back the tears of frustration pricking at her eyes. If only the rest of the world could see him as she did, could know his genius, could know all the beauty inside of him waiting for a chance to burst into bloom.
Footsteps sounded on the stage above them. "They're returning from lunch," Christine told him. "I have to go back." She sat up straight.
Her Angel sighed. "I know. I shall miss you all afternoon, as I have missed you all morning." He cupped her cheek in his hand, leaning forward to brush his lips tenderly over hers.
When she finally rose from his lap several kisses later, she hugged him once more then said, "Go pick out some audition pieces for me. And you must put together a portfolio of your work. That will keep you so busy that the time will fly by."
"Until tonight, Christine," he said, "I love you." With that, he blended into the shadows at the back of the orchestra pit. She heard the faint creak of a trap door opening and closing, and he was gone.
Inhaling deeply, Christine allowed herself a long shiver. Her Angel wasn't the only one eagerly awaiting their wedding–and their wedding night. Straightening her dress, she headed for dance class.
Raoul entered the theater proper in time to see Christine climbing awkwardly out of the orchestra pit. Hurrying up the aisle, he held out his hand to her.
"Thanks," she said, not looking up until she was standing on the theater's carpet. When she did, she snatched her hand away as if he had been a hot stove. "Raoul! I didn't realize it was you."
"And if you had, you would have spurned my aid?" he asked, looking closely at her. Her face was flushed, possibly from exertion, her lips slightly swollen as if she had just been kissed. "What were you doing down there anyway?"
She put a hand to her hair, smoothing it down. "I dropped my barrette. I'm lucky I found it. It's very dark down there." Christine turned to leave, but he caught her arm.
"A question before you go," he pleaded. She gave him an impatient glare, but paused. "Last night, after I left the roof, I thought I heard singing. Your voice, and a man's."
The look she shot him said plainly that she thought he was delusional. "Once you left, I was the only one up there. And yes, I sang a song for my Angel in heaven. I feel closer to him on the roof. Is that a crime now?"
Slightly embarrassed, Raoul shook his head. "No, no, I just thought I was hearing things so I went back up to the roof. You weren't there. No one was, yet you did not pass me when you came down."
She gave him a slight smile. "There is more than one entrance to the roof. I was upset and did not wish to run into you again. I simply left by a different door than I had entered. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to be late for rehearsal."
Unable to come up with a reason to detain her any longer, Raoul let her leave. As she climbed the stairs to the stage, she paused, taking the barrette from her hair. Twisting her long curls in to a knot, she pinned them up. He couldn't help but stare at the elegant line of her back, her bare neck and shoulders. As she walked away, he noticed a bruise marred the creamy perfection of her skin, just where her neck joined her shoulder. It was small and purple, and its location gave rise to the notion that it could have been caused by an enthusiastic lover's kiss.
Raoul shook his head. His imagination was running away with him. Christine was a dancer. They were always getting bumps and bruises. Still, he would swear he had heard a man's voice on the roof, the same voice he had heard months ago in Christine's dressing room. If Dr. Jarred had not told him the Phantom was dead—
No, he wasn't going to think about the situation anymore. Christine wanted nothing more to do with him, and who was he to say that she wasn't right in her decision? Clearly her grief for the Phantom had affected her personality. He left the stage area, heading toward the opera house's kitchen.
Once he arrived, he got a cup of tea and some biscuits and found a chair in the corner. Why had he even bothered to come here? There was nothing here for him any more; the opera house meant nothing to him without Christine. The sound of her name being spoken caused him to lift his gaze from his teacup.
At the next table sat two women he recognized as part of Carlotta's little entourage. The plump, rosy-cheeked woman was her maid, and the thin one with the strange doughnut shaped hair knot was her seamstress, if he remembered correctly.
"Christine Daaé came to see the mistress?" the seamstress asked. "Oh my, I don't believe it."
"Believe it," replied her companion. "She came to ask Carlotta about other theaters. She is planning on leaving the Opera Populaire."
A young man with bushy hair bent over between the gossiping women. "Did you say Christine Daaé? Francine says she has been acting very strangely ever since the Bal Masqué. She no longer sleeps in the ballet dormitories, moved all of her belongings out of there last week. In fact, last night we were passing by the chapel and saw her with a man, if you get my meaning."
"Who?" the maid asked eagerly, her cheeks flushing brighter in her excitement.
The man shook his head. "I'm afraid I do not know. It was dark, and I would not have known who the couple were, save for Francine recognized Christine's voice. The man, he said nothing, as his lips were otherwise occupied. From the sounds Miss Daaé was making, she quite approved of what they were doing."
Someone called for the man, and he left the kitchen. The maid and the seamstress continued to whisper and giggle to each other, but Raoul caught only snatches of the rest of the conversation over the roar of his blood rushing through his veins.
What kind of game was Christine playing? Breaking their engagement then moments later enjoying a tryst with another man? He could not believe she was thinking of leaving the opera house. Even Raoul knew it was the only real home she had known after her father died. The Phantom's death had unhinged her completely, leaving her at the mercy of men who would prey on such a damaged, vulnerable child.
He ran his hands through his hair in frustration. She had rejected him. He should leave the theater and never return, wash his hands of her. And yet...he couldn't help but think back to the night of Il Muto, of how frightened, how fragile she had seemed on the rooftop. He had promised to guard her then, to spend a lifetime protecting her. He was not a man who broke his promises.
He still loved her, and though she had spurned him, he would not see her be taken advantage of. But just how, exactly, was he to get to the truth about what was going on?