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By Jstarz927
A/N: Apologies for the long delay, but the previous month has been insane. Moving about 1000+ miles away to a new house, setting up a new computer. Yech. But at least now I'm less than two hours away from New York…maybe I'll be able to see the musical after all.
Here is the new chapter, written during a spurt of inspiration when the muse was feeling particularly generous. Info about Florentine structures comes from personal experience. They really are beautiful, and I strongly recommend a visit.
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Chapter 5
To Err is Human…
Clarice turned the corner and looked into the managers' office, groaning slightly when she saw the person already inside.
M Firmin chose that moment to look up from the receipts on his desk and spied her in the doorway. "Ah, Mme Duchesse de Londres, do come in." He seemed to be in a much better and more sober mood than he was last night, and it was not too hard to see why. Even as Clarice stepped into the office, Firmin's attention moved back to the considerable stack of receipts upon his desk.
As the man seemed disinclined to reacknowledge her existence anytime soon, Clarice let her eyes wander over the unchanged squalor of the office to settle upon the half dozen newspapers scattered over Firmin's desk among the receipts.
"So you've seen the news then," he said, looking up long enough to pick up the nearest one, L'Epoque. "They all say the same: 'Mystery after Gala Night!'" he picked up another, "'Mystery of Soprano's Flight!'." He offered the papers to her and she took them, glancing with a raised eyebrow at the headlines that screamed from every edition. "It makes you wonder whether opera is truly what the audience comes to see. Gluck? Handel? Or a scandal?" He chuckled in delight over his own cleverness.
Clarice stared at him as if he had sprouted another head.
"This is damnable!"
They both turned to see Andre storming through the entrance in the most foul of tempers. He stopped short upon seeing Clarice. "Oh, my apologies, madam, I didn't know you were here. You must excuse my behavior, but it is distressing, most distressing…"
"I see no need to worry so much over Mlle Daae's absence," Clarice said with a frown. "After all, she's only been gone one night." She saw Andre's facial expression shift into the look she knew so well. Oh God please don't say it. I swear if you say it—
"I'm sorry, madam, but I afraid you don't understand exactly how this business works."
Suddenly the pistol strapped to her thigh seemed twice as heavy.
Andre continued, seemingly unaware of the new coldness in her eyes. "It's a terrible thing. Already the people are beginning to question us as to why we've been keeping such a talent a secret. And now, poof! Disappeared without a trace, leaving us with no cast to speak of."
"Actually—," Clarice stifled the rest of her sentence before it left her lips. It would be worth it to see how the managers handled this particular disaster.
If either of the managers heard her, they gave no indication that they had. Firmin was trying to placate his partner, gesturing grandiosely at the immense pile of receipts on his desk. "Andre, Andre, can't you see that this is doing us more good than harm? Look at these receipts, look at the queue outside the box office!"
"Because Mlle Daae sang well…"
"…and because she disappeared just as well afterwards. The audience loves this sort of thing."
"We'll see how much they love us after the production of 'Il Muto' is cancelled because we have no cast!"
"Andre, calm yourself. Read your mail." As he spoke, Firmin picked two sheets of paper from the cluttered desk and handed one to his partner.
Andre snatched the note to him with one hand and read it aloud, almost absently. "'Dear Andre, what a charming gala…'" With each sentence his scowl became more and more pronounced until he was fairly glowering. "… 'the dancing was a lamentable mess!'" He scoffed, "How dare he!"
Clarice's head had snapped up at the last part of the note. "The dancing…what?"
Andre looked at her, seeming surprised that she was still in the room. "Yes, pure insolence don't you think?"
Clarice hardly heard what he was saying, the shock of hearing her husband's remark repeated word for word on the mysterious note still fresh in her mind. Coincidence? She didn't think so, but who could've heard…? Her mind rushed back to the empty box 5. She returned to the room in which she was standing in time to hear Firmin reading his letter.
"'My salary has not been paid'…oh for God's sake, not this again! And these are both signed O.G., exactly as I feared."
"Monsieur, who is demanding a salary?" Clarice asked curiously.
Firmin looked at her as if debating whether or not he should answer her. Apparently he decided it would be worth his trouble. "This O.G., also known as the much-beloved Opera Ghost, is under some delusion that we have 20000 francs a month to spare for his 'services' to the theater. As if we would! He is clearly quite insane."
Inquisitive, Clarice asked, "What services?"
An almighty shout disrupted whatever answer Firmin might have given.
"Where is she?!" The door shuddered before it was wrenched open by a red-faced and intensely irritated Vicomte de Chagny. His cuffs were unbuttoned and his collar was twisted. He was holding a note in a clenched right hand, and his eyes moved over the occupants of the room before settling on Clarice.
Perhaps it was because her face was the most prevalent among his memories of the night before. Perhaps his romantic spirit insisted on playing the role of the wounded hero. Or perhaps he was simply desperate. Clarice suspected the latter, but such knowledge did not increase her sympathy for the boy one bit as he rounded upon her, thrusting the note in her face. "Christine Daae! What have you done with her, Cassandra?"
Clarice was momentarily dumbstruck by the temper tantrum taking place before her. "Raoul, what—?"
"I trusted you! You even helped me look for her, and now you send me this note? What the hell is the meaning of this little joke?"
She took the note currently slashing the air in front of her face into her hands and read quickly. Her eyes widened before she raised them, and the look she gave Raoul was enough to deflate his temper somewhat. "You truly think I would do something so spiteful?"
"I—I—," he looked around at the managers for some support and found nothing but bewildered curiosity. Sputtering, he said, "But you must have something to do with this, you're the only one who was there when she disappeared. 'Angel of Music'? Who else but you?"
Clarice felt her anger dissipating as amusement over the boy's shoddy detective work began to take its place. The Agency would have never let him hear the end of it. "Raoul," she said calmly, her voice edged with steel, "I know that you care for Christine, but to think that you are the only one who does…" And to constantly play her hero, she thought. "You will cause her more grief than good."
Raoul looked a little humbled by her words but his face had not lost its mulish look. "You know where she is, don't you?" he muttered.
"Correct. Congratulations, your detective work is improving by the minute," Clarice said bitterly. "Now if you will excuse me, I will go make my confession to the police force you have no doubt brought here." She brushed past all three astonished faces and walked out the door.
She heard Raoul sprinting after her. "Cassandra, where—?" His query was cut short by the arrival of Carlotta. She stormed past Clarice with hardly a glance in her direction and planted herself squarely in front of Raoul, blocking his path and shaking a note in his face.
"I have your letter, monsieur!" She slammed the door behind her and Clarice heard no more. Shaking her head in exasperation and exhaustion, she began walking away from the office.
The walk, meant to ease her anger, only aggravated her, and she was fuming by the time she reached the Grand Foyer. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see thousands of her reflections stalking angrily from mirror to mirror.
How dare he! she thought. How dare he insinuate such things about her when all she had ever done was help him? With loathing, she recalled the look of self-righteous anger upon Raoul's face. He loves it, loves playing the hero to his childhood friend. Obviously he has no idea what being a hero entails, he can't be more than twenty years old after all…
Clarice stopped short in her furious gait. Her reflections in the mirrors froze in their dance. She looked into one of them and her features seemed to shift, grow younger and more naïve. She raised a trembling hand to her mouth. Oh God, now I've done it. Opened Pandora's box of memories, I have…I can't hate him now, damn him! I was probably so much worse when I was his age, but…surely, I never judged anyone before getting to know them.
Oh, Special Agent Starling, you think you can dissect me with this blunt, little tool?
She shook her head furiously. No, that time was long past. Her reverie broke when she heard hurrying footsteps coming towards her from the end of the foyer.
"Madam! Wait, Cassandra!"
She turned away and took several determined steps forward. She hadn't gotten more than several feet before he caught up with her and impulsively reached out to grab her elbow. She whirled around upon him, and he paled, hastily releasing her and murmuring an apology.
"Yes, Raoul? Are you willing to be reasonable now, or should I go home and let you tear apart the theater again looking for her? Alone, too, I might add." She was being spiteful, but she couldn't resist. The look of childish innocence and determination upon his face was uncomfortably familiar.
He took a step back from her, leaving a proper three feet between them "I suppose I deserve that," he muttered, fumbling with a piece of paper in his fingers. "I have behaved badly, madam, and I beg your forgiveness."
"And what brought about this sudden revelation?"
"The ballet mistress Giry informed us that she had taken Christine home. And…and that you had been the one that told her to do so. I-I thank you, and I apologize for accusing you. That was inexcusable. I was just…very worried for her safety," he muttered, hanging his head in shame.
"Do you realize, Raoul, that if you had simply given me a chance to speak, that I could have told you where she was and therefore saved you much anxiety?" He shifted uncomfortably. She sighed. "You must remember that I am your friend, as well as Christine's. I would not have helped you search for her so diligently last night if I was not."
Raoul was silent.
Clarice looked down at the note she still held in her hand. The words were written in red ink. The script was halting and clumsy, like a child's. "What is this 'Angel of Music' business anyway?"
She saw his expression shift. She saw his discomfort seep into his skin and a dash of nostalgia thrown over it. The overall effect made him appear as if he were reliving a memory that caused him equal parts pleasure and pain. "When we were very young, Christine's father would tell us these magical stories of Little Lotte and her encounters with goblins and fairies. She liked them well, but her favorite visitor was the Angel of Music who would sing songs in her head while she slept. The Angel comes only to those whom he chooses, and when he does, they perform music such that makes people weep with wonder." He said all this rather reverently, as if he had heard it many many times before. His face went rigid. "Christine told me last night that her father in heaven had sent her the Angel. She has no doubt of it. I dread to think what force has overtaken her mind."
"Christine was close to her father?"
"Extremely so." He cleared his throat nervously, "Are we okay, Cassandra?"
She smiled at him, a small sad smile. "Yes, Raoul." They began walking through the Grand Foyer. He did not think to offer her his arm. Clarice's mind was spinning. Christine still lived with her father's ghost; she was haunted by it, tormented by her memories. Dimly, Clarice remembered the black-and-white image of a girl holding a violin and clutching her father's hand. And she believes he has sent her the Angel of Music. A strange angel at that…"Oh madam, that face! Why must it haunt me so…?" she had said.
The memory of the sinister, skulking shadow was all too fresh in her mind. Pale, ghostly skin and burning amber eyes. Clarice wondered what secrets lay behind that half-mask. She had not missed the way his hand had trembled as it reached for Christine. Nor could she misunderstand the barely-veiled threat to Raoul in the letter she presently held in her hand. Do not fear for Miss Daae. The Angel of Music has her under his wing. Make no attempt to see her again.
Although she had chosen to remain blissfully unaware of her feelings for Hannibal barely one year ago, her mind and intuition had advanced quite a bit since then. She was longer as ignorant about the things right in front of her face.
Shaking her head, she wondered what sort of bizarre love triangle she had wandered into so unwittingly. She felt it inside of her then: an unavoidable chain reaction of events that had started the moment she had laid eyes upon the Phantom of the Opera. There was nothing she could do now except face what she had begun.
As they approached the double doors that led to the theater, she stopped and turned to Raoul. "So then, what was it that Carlotta was screeching about?"
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Paris 1863
The man was trespassing.
However, it would have been difficult for anyone except Erik to pinpoint that fact. The stranger was sitting leaning against a large tree and facing the barely constructed foundation. With his relaxed posture and scrutinizing gaze, he seemed for all intents and purposes like a king overlooking his domain. A sketchpad was balanced on his knees and his right hand, holding a pencil, was moving in large sweeping gestures upon the paper. Every so often he would lift his eyes from his work but then only to glance back at the scaffoldings and iron skeleton of the structure.
There was nothing immediately bizarre about the man's presence except for the fact that it was three o'clock in the morning and his face was unfamiliar. Erik knew every single worker on the site, and he knew for certain that this man was not one of them. With his eyes that saw in the dark as easily as any cat's, he made his way silently to the man's side. He paused a moment to glance at the sketchpad and saw quickly that the structure the man was envisioning looked nothing at all like the proposed plan for the Opera House. It looked much better.
"What are you doing here at this hour, monsieur?"
If the man was startled by the voice that suddenly descended out of the darkness, he did not show it. The hand paused over the sketchpad, hovering in midair before he laid the pencil aside. Turning to look exactly where Erik stood, he said calmly, "I could ask the same of you."
The man could see him in this darkness? And that voice! So familiar...it took awhile for Erik to recognize it as his own.
Erik brushed aside his sudden uneasiness. "You are not a worker at this site, therefore you have no right to be here."
"This tree is not part of the construction zone, monsieur. I am perfectly permitted to sit here if I wish."
No had dared to speak to him like that for years. Unconsciously, Erik felt his hands inching toward the familiar pocket in his cloak. Before he could reach it, the moon came out from behind a cloud. In the silver light, Erik could see the man's face plainly. He could see the formidable intelligence in his eyes and the high cheekbones that always seemed to grace the faces of royalty.
The man couldn't have been more than a decade older than himself, but he had the feeling that if the man had been a hundred years old, there would be the same coldness in his gaze. Erik was reminded of a basilisk. He could not determine the color of the man's eyes, for they shone black in the moonlight.
A few seconds passed before Erik realized that the stranger saw him as clearly as he was being observed. He froze as the man looked upon his masked face, a questioning, searching look in his eyes. "So you are Erik."
"How do you know who I am?"
"I traveled all the way from Italy to see the construction of this building. I made it my business to know those behind the design."
Erik snorted, annoyed again but not for his original reason. "That's Garnier you're talking about."
"Garnier is intelligent, but he's the sort of man who would have gone crazy after one year of dealing with the politicians if he didn't have some sort of help," said the man with a shrug.
Erik's lips curved slightly in what could have been a smile, but his brusque tone of voice did not change. "You still haven't answered my question."
"Your reputation precedes you, monsieur. Your workers talk of little else."
"And you believe the no doubt flattering opinions of the laborers."
"I believe what I see," said the man casually.
"You've been spying on me then," said Erik hotly. He had just returned from the section of building he had been working on. For the past few hours, he had been diligently modifying the preliminary structure of the facade, fixing the mistakes the laborers had made during the day. Never did he imagine that someone else would have been around at this hour.
"Harsh. I came here tonight merely to sketch in peace. I would say that I was more 'casually observing' your work. I've never before seen someone else who could work as well at nighttime as I."
For the first time in years, Erik was at a complete loss as to what to say. Fear and hatred, the two most common reactions to him, apparently did not interest this man in the slightest. He had made no mention of the mask and possessed none of the prying inquisitiveness of the workers he had to deal with each day.
"What part of Italy do you come from?" said Erik cautiously, hoping that his uncertainty did not show in his voice.
"Florence. I became aware of this project when Garnier placed a large order for stone from the city. Have you ever been there?"
"No," said Erik as he let out a breath he wasn't aware he had been holding. The man wouldn't have heard of his time in Rome then. "I have seen photographs."
"I do believe this would interest you then." The man flipped a few pages forward in his sketchbook to reveal a finished drawing. "This is the Duomo seen from the Belvedere. Santa Maria del Fiore and Giotto's belltower," he said, pointing to each structure in turn. He heard Erik's quick intake of breath as he beheld the beauty of the structure. "You have heard of the place?"
"Of course. Brunelleschi's dome is one of the marvels of ancient architechture." Erik found himself taking a step towards the man, drawn by the intricate beauty of his sketch. He had seen drawings of the cathedral before and read countless books about it, but never before had it looked this real. "It was one of the marvels of the Renaissance. A double dome more than 140 feet in diameter built without scaffolding or supporting framework of any kind."
"Yes," said the stranger. "However, I've always found the belltower to be an even more fascinating structure than the cathedral. Look at the tricolored marble, the perfect positioning of the light windows, and that beautiful terrace. So much more interesting than the cusps that normally surmount Gothic belltowers." He paused, lost in thought, and his finger came forward to touch the sketch lightly. "It is ironic then that Giotto di Bondone was considered by many Florentines to be the ugliest man in the city."
"Indeed?" queried Erik softly. Something flickered across his eyes before the expression was lost in the shadows of the mask.
"Yes. 'Short and homely' I belive is what they said out of courtesy. Although you will find few who remember him that way. You can see that his monument has far outlived his earthly reputation."
"You know my name, but I have no knowledge of yours."
"I am...Dr. Fell. Dr. Arthur Fell."
"A medical doctor?"
"Officially. But you will find that I am a man of…many talents."
Erik was silent for a moment. Then, "Will you be here tomorrow night?"
Dr. Fell returned to the sketch of his version of the Opera House. "Does this mean I am welcome on your worksite then?"
He shrugged. "Apparently."
Dr. Fell smiled and the moon glittered in his darkened eyes. "My apologies for my initial trespass." The moon went behind a cloud and when it came back out, he was gone.
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Erik opened his eyes to find himself drenched with sweat. How long he had slept he did not know, but the pain in his stomach told him it had been a day at least. As his vision cleared, he discovered himself lying upon the couch in the music room in an undignified heap.
He focused his eyes upon the ceiling for as long as possible, knowing what he would find if he turned his head. For a moment, he entertained the notion that it had all been an elaborate nightmare. Simply another nightmare to poison his mind.
It was hot and uncomfortable underneath the mask and he took it off, wiping the sweat from the ravaged side of his face. He gazed at the ceiling again, his eyes following the contours of the natural rock in the flickering candlelight.
He groaned. This would not do at all. He abhorred weakness in other people and would not become a hypocrite by refusing to face what he had done. Rolling off the couch, he crossed the room to kneel by Buquet's side. Touching the rigid hand confirmed that the body had already stiffened in death.
He had to see that the man was buried. Erik was surprised to notice that his mind allowed him no choice in the matter. Buquet had been a decent soul, despite his liking for malicious gossip, and had provided the ballet girls with many a good laugh.
Erik looked into the dead man's tormented face and tried to remember his reason for killing him. None came. He knew the way into your home, you idiot. That was true, but when he had killed the man, that thought had not even crossed his mind. It was only after the fact, after he had returned from his blind rage.
He covered his eyes with his bony fingers. Of course Christine had drawn back in horror, how could she not? Even if his face had been normal, the ugliness in his soul surely would have frightened her away. His thoughts returned to the dream that had been no dream but a memory. The man's true name hadn't been Dr. Fell in the end, but that didn't keep Erik from remembering him that way. There had been plenty sinister about him after all.
Yet why this particular memory? The suspicion followed by the growing intrigue followed by that talk about monuments. Erik laughed softly. Surely Hannibal had known everything about him already during that first meeting. Still, he had to credit him for that marvelous segue that had given him the opportunity to wax metaphorical.
Well, the monument was built now…except that it was no longer his. After the retirement of the previous manager, the Opera Ghost's demands were being rejected as practical jokes. Before he had fallen into his exhausted sleep, he had heard, through his system of cleverly placed gas pipes, Carlotta's indignant shrieks and the self-righteous voices of the managers soundly rejecting his casting for the new production of "Il Muto".
But the Opera House wasn't the only monument he had attempted to construct, was it? After all, hadn't he tried to bend the will of an innocent girl to his? When she had seen her dream had been as twisted and mangled as his wretched face, hadn't he almost destroyed her for his own petty desires? But their music…He could not bear to see her forsake her talent because of his fault. He would not let this young woman who sang like one of God's own angels fall, not if he could do something about it.
Therefore, Erik found the resolution he had made the previous night fading into nothing. He would go see her, and then if she wanted nothing to do with him, well…he would find a way to accept it.
Erik passed a hand over the Buquet's forehead, resisting the impulse to close the dead man's eyes. Lifting the body easily in his arms, he made his way to the exit of his home.
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Christine sat in her dressing room after rehearsal, staring with half-delirious eyes at the mirror in front of her. Her hands were clenched into tight fists, her nails digging painfully into her palms, but she did not move from her position on the couch. Her jaw ached with the effort of containing the scream that had been festering for more than a day.
She had wanted to scream then. That morning after a broken man had quickly deposited her upon the couch in her dressing room and just as quickly disappeared. She had wanted to hurl things across the room and weep out of disappointment and fright.
Yet when Mme Giry had helped her through the door to her flat and had her lie down in her bed, tucking the covers carefully around her before departing, she found that she couldn't. Amidst the calm atmosphere of her home, surrounded by the memorabilia of the life that was once hers, it was hard not to imagine that the whole thing had been a dream. Burying her face into blankets she had used as a child, seeing the old furniture, the photographs on the dresser. The darkness of the fifth cellar held no power in this place that was unmistakably home.
Which had undoubtedly been Cassandra's intention all along.
Christine had almost smiled. Since when had she become Cassandra? Truthfully, Christine had never thought of the woman as the "Duchess of London". She still scoffed lightly at the title. The woman was elegant, rich, and well-mannered in all the ways befitting a noblewoman and yet she was different from them. She had no desire to flaunt her status; her dress was cultured yet tasteful. Her eyes bore no arrogance but instead shone with a quiet resourcefulness and confidence as if she had risen to her current position after sweating and struggling for it all her life.
When Cassandra had taken her into her arms, Christine had felt…safe. She couldn't quite pinpoint the reason for her instinctive trust in this woman except that as a child, she had always been inclined to trust people easily. And yet, when she wanted to do nothing but scream and weep, Cassandra had calmed her without even trying and Christine had obeyed her commands blindly.
She had seen her once since yesterday morning, at rehearsal this afternoon. Cassandra had been sitting in the back row of the theater, watching the rehearsal with professional detachment. Except for once, when Christine saw her shoot Carlotta a look of undisguised hatred. The Spanish diva had taken the main role once more, and Christine had not seen the managers glance in her direction even once all during rehearsal. Her disappointment at their sudden disinterest in her only added to her sorrow.
And now, in her dressing room once more and with that blasted mirror in front of her, mocking her with its silence, the memories rushed back with the force of a hurricane.
She shivered as she remembered the chill of the fifth cellar and then calmed when she recalled the strong, gentle hands that had held her in a tender embrace. If she closed her eyes, she could let the music wash over her senses like a pleasant breeze. Such music she had never heard before during all her time with her Angel.
Her Angel…a man…Christine felt her stomach lurch as she remembered the look of horror in his face that she surely mirrored with her own. Who was he and how dare he pretend to be an Angel? Yet when he had reached his arms toward her, pleading for his mask, the voice had not changed except that it was tinged with infinite sorrow.
Who was this man and how had he come to live beneath the Opera? More importantly, how had he come to know her? Those were the questions her mind asked, but her body had frozen, rendered immobile by the horror of his face.
In her dressing room, Christine felt tears coming to her eyes as she remembered the look of gut-wrenching agony upon the man's face. She lifted her eyes up to the mirror once more. "Angel…please, please let me hear your voice once more. I want to hear you, I want to see you once again. Please…" she begged softly.
Nothing but the blank stare of an empty mirror.
Tears rushed anew to run down her cheeks. "Angel, my angel…"
"Please…don't call me that."
Christine raised her head at once, her face shining with hope, grief, and confusion at the same time. "Oh my Ange-, I'm sorry. What shall I call you instead?"
The pause before he spoke was so long that Christine feared he had left again.
"Nothing. Forget I said that then."
"Oh please, at least tell me your name!"
"Christine…it is better if you don't know."
"But…"
"I never meant for you to find out that I was nothing but a man, and now that you have, you can't be feeling too kind towards your Angel either. When you still thought I was your Angel, how did you think of me?"
Christine bit her lip. "It was the happiest time of my life. All my dreams had come true at once, and I could hardly take it…" Her eyes came up again and stared intently at the seemingly-innocuous surface of the mirror. "And even now, I still wish my Angel would come back and teach me."
"Even though I deceived you?"
"I…I understand why it was necessary."
"I don't think you do, Christine, I don't think you do at all."
She lowered her eyes, unable to answer. The silence that followed was nearly as long as the first, and she felt the fear start to grow in her heart again.
"Show me what you're working on now."
Christine's breath caught in her throat, and tears shimmered in her eyes as her hands started to shake, almost unable to believe. Then she retrieved her libretto from where she had deposited it on the couch.