A/N: This chapter got to be so long that I was forced to split it into two different chapters. So, next chapter should be coming a week or less. This is partially to make up for taking longer than expected to update and partially out of guilt for neglecting to write better scenes for Erik. *hangs head in shame* ("You're forgiven, but only if I get the girl in the end," he says. Hmmm.)
I have finally finished reading Susan Kay's excellent Phantom and I could not have found a more excellent depiction of Erik's life. That woman is a goddess. Of course…this messes up my mental timeline even more since she obviously followed LeRoux's chain of events. Let it be known then that there will be characters from Kay appearing in this story while the timeline remains that of the musical.
Oh, and someone was so kind to tell me that Carlotta's home country was Spain not Italy, so that has been changed.
Disclaimer: This disclaimer applies for this and all subsequent chapters. All characters belong to Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay, Andrew Lloyd Webber, and Thomas Harris. No money is being made off of this story whatsoever. I own nothing. (Much grumbling from Hannibal as I write this. "Especially not me. I protest against this outrage. You've made me almost likeable." Oh shush it, you'll get your chance for fun later…yes, yes I promise, now go prepare dinner for your wife.)
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Chapter 3 Gala and AfterwardsThe same thought had run through both their minds, although Christine was still beside herself in anxiety. It still felt as though a ghost from her past had walked through her door. Not that that should be new to you now, she thought. Not after her Angel…
She fumbled for something to say as the elegant woman sat down in a chair by the door. "Can I offer you anything, madame? A drink? A more comfortable chair?" she said, not having a clue where she would get these things if the woman did in fact request them.
"I'm quite alright, thank you."
Christine continued to shift in her chair, unable to comprehend her sudden nervousness. Yes, she was talking to a noblewoman. That in itself had to be nerve-wracking. It was something…more, though. She felt like she did the time when her Angel had first sung to her. She looked up to find Clarice looking at her kindly, if a little worriedly, and she flushed. This is ridiculous. She seems like a very nice person after all. And with that thought, her childish instincts took over, much to the relief of her beleaguered reason, which was more than happy now to take a spectator's position to the scene that unfolded.
"First, Mademoiselle Daae, I must tell you that you sounded beautiful when I heard you sing four days ago. Your voice is so powerful and crystal-clear."
She replied almost instinctively, years of etiquette drummed into her from an early age moving her lips and forming words. "Thank you, madame. May I ask if you sing as well?"
"Me? Oh no, I couldn't carry a tune to save my life. But that doesn't mean I can't recognize talent when I see it." She smiled warmly, and Christine could feel herself relax. But Clarice's next statement left her stiff with shock once more. "Or lack thereof. Speaking of which, I've heard that the former prima donna has left the country. What a pity."
Christine could almost taste the sweet venom in her voice. "Oh, it is only for the time being. I'm certain she'll be back within a week. Carlotta is a big name and the Opera would be insane to lose her." What are you saying, you silly girl? Her reasoning mind that had until then lay dormant could not resist objecting profusely to the words she had uttered. She ignored it.
"Mmm, perhaps," was all that Clarice said to that. "You will be singing her part in the gala though."
"It…it appears so," Christine stammered.
Clarice lifted her hands from her lap in a gesture of peace. "Mademoiselle, you may speak freely in my presence, I am hardly likely to report you to the managers for any reason. Not when I look forward to you singing in the gala tomorrow night more than anything. I did notice that you sounded a little nervous when you first sang La Carlotta's part; you really shouldn't be."
"I apologize, madame. It's just that…my teacher is not the easiest one to please." Damn! Where had that come from?
"Please give your instructor my compliments then. He, it is a he?" Christine nodded her assent. "He would be insane not to recognize the amazing job you are doing."
Christine could find nothing to say to this, yet an uncomfortable silence was avoided when Clarice spoke again. "I trust you have already heard of my husband and mine's interest in the Paris Opera House?"
"Oh yes, and if I may say so, it must have been a considerable interest. Andre and Firmin could not quite keep their voices down for joy over your investment. We could hear them celebrating all during rehearsal last week."
Firmin apparently not pleased enough to grace them with his presence though..."Well, mademoiselle Daae, because of our interest, I will be at the Opera House quite often from now on. My husband prefers working from his desk but I find such an approach utterly unsatisfying. It is my job to make sure that everything is well. Therefore, if there is ever anything you need, do not hesitate to ask me."
"Madame…I-I thank you. But why—"
"The Opera is nothing without its star," Clarice said, smiling.
Something about the way she said it killed any argument Christine might have harbored. Clarice nodded and stood up from her chair. "Then I bid you goodday, mademoiselle. I look forward to tomorrow night. Remember what I said." Clarice paused on her way out, her hand resting on the edge of the door. "Mademoiselle Daae…" she took a deep breath and her next words slipped from her lips as of their own volition, "…don't worry. Your father hears you."
Christine's eyes went wide and her mouth felt dry. "How…?"
Clarice turned and pointed to the silver-framed black-and-white photograph set atop the dresser in the room. The photo depicted a man in his late thirties holding the hand of a young girl. His eyes were strong and warm. The girl clutched a violin in her other hand. Clarice gestured toward the photograph in explanation before shutting the door behind her.
I looked into her eyes and I knew immediately. They were the eyes of one who has sunk into the pits of despair and is just beginning to claw her way out. That hope in her eyes...barely masked by an instinctive wariness. That wariness will not keep her safe.
Oh yes, and she is hiding something as well. That much was obvious from the start.
Clarice clenched her left hand into a fist, her lips set in a fierce line. She dragged herself away from the door and set off down the hallway.
In the shadows of a nearby passageway, Erik silently watched her leave. He had heard everything that had transpired in Christine's dressing room and was sufficiently intrigued to follow the woman as she made her exit.
Cassandra Fell...Fell...where had he heard that name before?His musings were cut short when he saw the woman lean against the wall of the hallway and wrap her arms around herself as if she were cold. Her lips moved soundlessly, and Erik had to hold his breath to hear what she was saying. When he was able to hear, her words chilled him to the core.
"Christine Daae…she is so much like me, that girl. She doesn't know, oh God. They will crush her dreams as easily as they make them, and they will never think on what they have destroyed…oh Christine, why? Why must it be you?" Her eyes filled but she did not weep as she continued to hug herself against the inner chill. "I wish…" she bit her lip and did not finish the thought.
Then Erik received a jolt of fear as she seemed to stare right at him. Her eyes narrowed as they peered into the shadows, and she shuddered again. He shrank against the wall even as the woman turned and walked out into the foyer, her heels clicking sharply upon the wooden floor.
Erik remained where he was long after the woman had gone, but Christine did not seem inclined to leave her dressing room anytime soon. Sighing in disappointment, he turned and lifted the trapdoor in the floor of the hallway and slipped into the labyrinthine tunnels underneath the Opera with practiced ease.
That Fell woman, Duchesse de Londres, wasn't she? He had heard whispers and gossip about the new patrons from the managers' office but had not laid eyes on the Duke yet.
What on earth was his wife doing prowling around the Opera House by herself, anyway?
What she had said had struck a chord, that was for sure. But…Ha, what did she know? It was he who had made Christine what she was now. He who had lifted her from the living hell she had consigned herself to after the death of her father. He who had watched her grow and shatter the boundaries that others had set for her. And he would stop at nothing now to ensure her success, nothing.
But that still didn't explain the dread he felt at the woman's words.
Don't think about it.
Erik took the tunnel that would lead him backstage. It was time to check that everything was in order for the gala.
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The night of the gala rolled around like Paris' long-awaited Christmas present. The streets around the Opera House were crammed to the bursting point with carriages and taxies. Drivers scurried around like crabs at low tide in their efforts to control the rate at which vehicles disgorged their passengers in front of the looming Italian-style façade. It was the biggest showing since the opening of the building.
"It is because of the new managers," Hannibal told Clarice as he helped her from their carriage. "All of Paris has turned out to observe how the change will affect the Opera. And of course to curry favor with dear messieurs Andre and Firmin." They had ascended the front steps and entered the room of the grand staircase. "Some of these people," he said, gesturing to the elegant, sparkling throngs crowded all around the staircase, "will not even see the performance. For them, it is far more important to be merely seen amongst this portion of society."
Despite the Fells' best efforts to maintain a low profile as they made their way up the staircase towards their box, various gazes inevitably turned their way. Although the Duke was of very average height for the day and age, his posture made him appear much taller than he was. His wife, dressed in an unadorned gown of cream-colored material, nevertheless outshone the glittering rhinestones and diamonds of the other women in the crowd. The sheer power of their presence did, however, make it quite easy for them to pass unhindered up the crowded staircase.
They were relatively undisturbed until monsieur Andre seemed to dart out from nowhere and insist on shaking both their hands until they were almost wrung off their wrists. A photographer appeared out of nowhere and would have happily snapped off several images for next day's edition of L'Epoque had Hannibal not intervened.
The man was actually in the process of taking a picture when Hannibal turned to him, his eyes flashing with warning. "No photographs, monsieur," he said, with coolly controlled fury. The man gulped and beat a hasty retreat. If Andre was confused by the attitude of his newest patron he did not show it.
Firmin showed up beside his partner about five minutes later, and, not seeming to notice the disapproving glares he was receiving from the Fells, proceeded to comment upon the excellent turnout. "Most impressive. Monsieur Andre, I believe this calls for a celebration…oh yes, why not, we deserve it. And besides…" here he lowered his voice. "I'm not sure how much we'll be able to celebrate following the performance."
"Surely, monsieur, you are not having second thoughts? Mademoiselle Daae showed herself quite capable, in my opinion," said Clarice.
Firmin's watery, straw-colored eyes slid over to Clarice's face, and he regarded her for a moment, a blank expression on his face. "I'm happy to see that you are a fan of hers, but I'm afraid you don't understood exactly how this business works. The audience wants the person they adore, madame. They are expecting Carlotta."
"Oh surely there is nothing wrong with…new blood, monsieur. Let's let the audience make its own decision before jumping to any conclusions, shall we?" Hannibal did not smile as he said this.
Firmin merely shrugged before turning back towards Andre. "How about a glass of champagne then, friend?" Andre nodded. Firmin turned back towards Hannibal and Clarice. "Monsieur? Madame?"
"No, thank you," said Clarice calmly.
Once they were safely settled in the privacy of box 6, Clarice let loose a stream of colorful swear words that made Hannibal raise his eyebrows.
"My thoughts on the man exactly. However, you managed to word it so much more eloquently."
They sat together in the semi-darkness of their box for nearly half an hour and watched the steady trickle of people entering the theater. Soon, the sea of red velvet chairs below them transformed into a myriad of bobbing brown, white, and black heads. Out of curiosity, Clarice got out of her armchair and leaned forward against the balcony, peering into the box to their left. She could only see far enough into it to make out the solitary armchair, which was empty.
"You won't see him. Not unless he wants you to."
Clarice did not move from her vantage point. "If you won't give me any help, do keep silent, monsieur." However, there was no denying that box 5 looked just like any other expensive private box, barring its emptiness. As Clarice scanned the theater, she could see that every other box had been filled. She sat back into her armchair with a huff. "You really won't tell me anything?"
"Your maddening curiosity is touching, but no."
"Then why on earth did you tell me about box 5 in the first place?"
He smiled, showing his small white teeth. "Because I knew you would have wanted to know."
"Hannibal—"
"My dear, if anyone had told you a few years ago what I was truly like and that you would eventually be my wife, would you have believed them?"
"I would have blown their head off." Clarice took her husband's hand and entwined his fingers with hers. "Very well, I understand. I won't say I'm happy about it, but I understand."
The lights on the seven-ton chandelier dimmed at that moment and the murmur of conversation in the theater gradually died away. Clarice watched the stage hungrily as the red velvet curtain rose and Christine Daae stepped onto the stage. Even underneath all her makeup, Christine still looked pale. Clarice began cheering for her mentally. Go on girl. This is your night. With a single anxious glance up at the boxes, Christine began to sing. And Clarice ceased to be aware of anything else.
Hannibal Lecter, whose every sense was ten times more acute than that of the average man, was just as entranced by the music, but, when it came, he did not fail to hear the slight groan in the architecture of the building to his left. His eyes slid ever so slightly toward the column embedded in the wall that separated them from box 5. A ghost of a smile played on his features before he shifted his gaze back towards the stage.
After the performance was over, Clarice settled back into her armchair with a sigh of contentment. I can't believe she ever doubted her skill. "I can't believe they were ever worried that people would ask for refunds. Hannibal, that was…" Her tongue seemed to have frozen along with the rest of her senses.
Hannibal laughed. "It seems as if you are not the only one at a loss for words. Take a look across the auditorium. Our dear Vicomte seems to have received the shock of his life."
They both looked at the box across the theater to see Raoul sitting stiff as a board in his armchair. His hands were clasped together in the process of applause, and he seemed unable to pry them apart. His arms were shaking slightly.
"His reaction at Miss Daae's appearance was rather amusing. I don't think he was aware of the fact that she was living in Paris, let alone performing."
"Tell me, Hannibal. Did you watch the performance at all?"
"Enough to know that the dancing was a lamentable mess."
"Oh come on. That little black-haired girl was good." She paused. "Hannibal, would you mind if I took the time to give Miss Daae my congratulations?"
"Take as long as you like, my dear. I must find Mr. Firmin to discuss some things with him. Although," and he sneered towards the managers' box at the back of the theater, "the man is probably too blind drunk tonight for any sort of conversation. It seems as if he didn't stop at that single glass of champagne."
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When Clarice found her, Christine was swamped with admirers and well-wishers all shoving flowers and various other gifts at her, and she looked absolutely bewildered. Wanting to congratulate the new diva in private, Clarice hung towards the back of the crowd until they all dispersed. As the hallway emptied, she spied Christine walking unsteadily towards her dressing room, as if in a daze. Clarice followed.
Bravi, bravi, bravissimi…
She saw Christine start and wondered why for a moment before realizing that the voice she thought had been part of her imagination had in fact been real. The voice had been unearthly, floating through the stone walls, effortlessly working their way into her mind. Clarice let her eyes explore every inch of the darkened hallway in which she now stood. Nothing.
She turned in time to step out of the way of the black-haired ballet girl as she hurtled past her and caught up with Christine. "Where in the world have you been hiding?" She threw her arms around her friend and whispered in her ear. She pulled back in time for Clarice to hear her say, "Who is this new tutor?"
Clarice leaned forward eagerly to hear, but Christine's answer was cut off when the door to her dressing room closed behind her. Cursing, Clarice continued down the hallway until she was standing outside the door. Somehow it seemed rude to knock at that point. She settled herself to wait until the girl came out. Minutes ticked by. An old woman walked past her and opened the dressing room door from whence the black-haired girl exited. Something about the look on her face gave Clarice the impression that Christine was in no mood to be disturbed at the moment. Yet she continued to wait long after the girl and her mother had departed.
Hearing voices, Clarice shrank back into the shadows in time to see her husband, Raoul, Andre, Firmin, and a woman who appeared to be the latter's wife come around the corner. They were all laughing, except for Hannibal who seemed to be forcing himself to grin good-naturedly. Mme. Firmin reached out to steady her husband as he stumbled in his gait, completely tipsy. Raoul reached out to take the champagne from a now green-faced Firmin.
"Gentlemen if you wouldn't mind. This is one visit I should prefer to make unaccompanied."
Andre nodded and the little group headed back the way they came, Hannibal looking extremely irritated. He saw Clarice in the shadows and looked at her questioningly. She shook her head. She would wait as long as it took. She simply had to speak to that girl…
She stared at the door that Raoul had closed behind him for what seemed to be an eternity. Surely there had to be way she could hear what transpired inside. After all, that voice had floated quite easily through the stone wall. Surely a flimsy wooden door couldn't be soundproof. Yet she continued to hang back, watching the door from a safe distance with something that resembled anxiety.
Barely five minutes had passed when the door swung open again and Raoul stepped out, smiling and high spirits. The champagne was gone from his hands. His eyes alighted upon Clarice, and he called to her. "Cassandra! Lovely to see you here!"
Clarice groaned slightly as she pulled herself away from the shadows. She wasn't in the mood tonight to deal with the lovestruck boy's ramblings. "Hello Raoul. I trust you enjoyed the performance."
"Madame, there are no words. And to think! Christine has been living in Paris this entire time, right under my very eyes."
"She remembered you, then?"
"Oh yes. We're going out to dinner in two minutes."
Clarice raised her eyebrows. Something about the way he'd said it told her that Christine hadn't had much say in the matter. "Yes well, let her know that…" She trailed off significantly as she heard the voice again, this time coming from behind the dressing room door.
Come to me, Angel of Music..."What the hell?"
Raoul had spoken her thoughts out loud. Clarice knocked upon the door as he reached for the knob.
"Christine?"
"It's locked!"
The door rattled and shook as Raoul pounded upon it. Clarice stepped back from the entrance, her thoughts congealing as if her mind were turning to ice. The voice that continued to sing softly through the door was identical to her husband's except for the lack of a slightly metallic undertone. She had raised a hand to her forehead, trying to soften the words pounding in her skull, when suddenly, the spell lifted as quickly as it had descended.
"Open the door, Raoul."
"I already tried it…"
Clarice stepped forward and turned the knob. The door opened easily under her hand, and the two of them stared into the dressing room in disbelief. Nothing was out of the ordinary except for two things. The half-empty bottle of champagne that Raoul had left in the room rested undisturbed on the dresser next to the silver portrait frame. And Christine was gone.