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A/N: Many thanks for the lovely reviews of the previous chapter, and for the enthusiastic response to the betting pool. The vote is a tight 3-2 in favor of Erik. I can't tell you which side is right, since that would be giving away too much from, IMHO, the coolest scene in the story. But I think you'll like it. Anyway, I'm back from vacation so it's time to start updating again. Onward! And with the longest chapter I've written yet! (Yeah, I'm a nerd.) I've also finally changed my screenname, the passion for Star Wars has passed. ;)
I received an e-mail from a reader wondering where Nadir was in the story. As far as this AU is concerned, Nadir missed the train to Paris and ended up in Prague where he remained because of the excellent Moravian wines. I bet he's having loads of fun there. ;-D Actually, I wrote Nadir out of this story because his character would have not fit in well with Hannibal and Clarice, and because Clarice does enough police work to put him to shame.
Chapter 9The Angel and the Nightbird
Six months later…
In the end, it came to pass because she was bored.
Last night, the new chandelier had been raised without incident and the final traces of blood had been scrubbed clean from the velvet seats. Exhausted and relieved, the new co-managers of the Opera had broken out a plentiful supply of champagne. Amidst the annoyance of her throbbing head, a souvenir of the night before, she remembered how the manners of her companions, M Andre and a few remaining stagehands, had flowed as freely as the drink.
Floating among the bubbles and the laughter, the men forgot that they were in the presence of a supposed aristocrat, one who did not deign to associate with the common people. They had talked, laughed, and drank together, and Clarice couldn't remember the last time she had enjoyed herself as much.
There had been precious little to enjoy for the past half year. She and Hannibal were speaking again, but only just. They spoke to ease the anxiety of the servants rather than out of the desire to share any meaningful conversation. As long as they made polite dinner discussion, the maids and butlers would not tiptoe in fear around the deathly silence between their employers.
What a twisted web of masks and deceit they lived in! Clarice realized now what she had known and ignored all along. Their relationship had always been about deception. From the very first day, when she had been sent as the sacrificial lamb to his dark cage, they had measured each other, tested how far the other would go. Perhaps they had even fooled themselves in the end.
So each asked the other with impeccable propriety to pass the soup or the salt and vanished from all other aspects of the other's life. If Hannibal knew of Clarice's new position at the Opera House, he gave no indication. And if Clarice worried that Hannibal never emerged from his study to sleep for more than two hours at a time, she gave no voice to her concerns.
So it came to pass that she lay upon the divan in the parlor in the very early morning after the new chandelier had been installed, massaging her sore head and feeling as if she would go out of her mind with boredom. The house was deathly silent. The servants had been given the Sunday off, and Hannibal was nowhere to be seen.
Sluggishly, her hand reached out toward the nearby table like a pale spider and gathered the weekend edition of the L'Epoque in its thin fingers. Her eyes skimmed over headlines that swam in her vision as inked gibberish before settling upon a full-page advertisement in color. The name of the company passed out of her memory but her gaze fixated upon the products being offered for "60% off!". Fine dresses tempted and bejeweled masks stared back at her with their empty paper eyes.
The company was shedding the last few remnants of Mardi Gras and preparing for a new season. With a shock, Clarice realized that it was already April and that the special Tuesday had passed her by without notice like every other day before and after it.
She stared hard at the article again, noticing how the masks began to wink at her after a few seconds of forced concentration with her bleary eyes.
Masks.
She sat bolt upright on the divan, her vision amazingly clear for one second.
She had heard of the fabulous masked balls thrown by the French though she had never had the chance to attend. The Opera House was ready to be reopened, but it would take a grand event to draw back the crowds. This would be the perfect event. All classes of Opera-goers mingling with each other, unafraid of being recognized and ostracized. And the gaiety would flow as freely as the drink.
There was another thought in her mind as she scrambled from the divan and prepared to head to the stables.
The Phantom would feel right at home.
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The Opera House at dawn was framed in golden light from the rising spring sun. With its smooth white façade and majestic pinnacle, the building looked as if it had been carved from heaven and deposited upon the earth for the awed admiration of mortals.
Letting herself in the main entrance with her key, Clarice took a moment to tremble in the grand stillness of the building. She remembered the morning many months ago when she had contemplated the building's silence in wonder. The silence had been friendly then, comforting like a mother's embrace.
Now it seemed as if the very stones were stained with blood. Clarice shook her head to rid herself of a sudden surge of vertigo as she climbed the Grand Staircase.
Her heels clicked through the empty hallways, hallways that felt uncomfortably large without the swishing skirts of giggling ballet girls and the clanking of moving scenery. Some of the revelers from the night before had not returned home, and every so often, she would round a corner to behold a worker sprawled upon the floor in drunken slumber.
Once she felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end, as if someone was watching her. Her steps slowed for a fraction of a second before she shook her head and continued walking. The Phantom had been slumbering for six months now. He would not awaken so soon.
She rapped loudly upon the door to the office, louder, perhaps, than would have been proper, but if Andre was in there he would not awaken easily either. She heard a sleepy shout and the sound of bone cracking against wood followed by a less sleepy exclamation.
The door opened abruptly a few seconds later and Andre, disheveled and rubbing his knee in pain, looked out at where she was standing in the hallway.
"Good morning, monsieur," Clarice said coolly.
Andre made a sound in his throat that might or might not have been a greeting in kind. Clarice smelled the sweet wine on his breath.
"Now that the chandelier has been installed, I thought that we should hurry to reopen the theater as soon as possible," she continued in a light-hearted voice.
"You awakened me to tell me that?" Andre grumbled.
"And that I had something in mind. I will need a week to prepare, no more than that."
Andre blinked for less than a minute, processing what she had just said. "Very well," he said at last, "Take care that you stay within our budget. The government will not be so forgiving a second time. Will there be a performance?"
"I think not. Our prima donna is currently…away."
"I see. In that case, you are free to make whatever preparations are necessary. That will be all, madam. Adieu." And with that he shut the door firmly in her face.
Clarice stepped away from the closed door calmly. She waited until she was several feet down the hallway before she began to smile.
Ah, how Andre loved to believe that he was in charge. What an air of bravado and control he created for the eyes of Paris! And in truth, since she had joined him in the business, there was not a single decision that he had not presented to her for approval or a single issue for which he had failed to request her advice. It had not taken long for her to recognize the frightened, indecisive child within the man. So she cheerfully put up with his brusque and sloppy manner and kept his wine glass filled at all times while she alone pulled the strings controlling the Opera.
This would be her biggest gamble.
She felt something akin to thrill swell within her. The sensation reminded her of how she felt before gunfights when she had been with the Agency. Looking up at a hallway clock, Clarice discovered that she had more than enough time to do what she desired.
Turning a corner, she emerged backstage behind the closed curtain. She picked up a lantern from the floor and descended the stairs into the cellars.
It had been six months since the Opera's enforced closure. When she had not been hassling patrons and government officials for more funds for the repair work or keeping a close eye on the ongoing (but diminishing) investigation by the Sûreté, Clarice had been exploring the basements of the Opera by the flickering half-light of this lantern.
For six months she had traversed the twisted hallways of a labyrinth that rivaled Daedalus' prison for the Minotaur in complexity, and she wished more than once for a golden thread to guide her way. As it was, she could not risk anything that would give away her presence in the Phantom's domain.
Instead, her investigative skills as keen as ever, she had made a torturously slow exploration of the damp tunnels and steep stairwells month after month. Each day she added to her mental map of the underground maze, and each day she took care to erase all signs of her presence.
She found the path that led to the mirror in Christine's room and the path that led behind the hollow panels of the managers' office. There was a path that led to a locked iron gate, beyond which she could see a moonlit street, and numerous other paths that twisted into dead-ends where she expected none and turned in never-ending circles where once had been a straight passageway. Dimly, she knew that all of the mind-bending pathways could not have been solely the work of the Communards during the revolution.
She found the underground lake by the end of the first month and found all the signal cables surrounding the shore and dipping down into the water a few days later. If the twisted maze and the obscene number of tripwires and similar traps in the corridors had not yet sent her a blatant message that she was dealing with a man that treated company most unkindly, this lake put an end to any of her doubts.
It was in front of this lake that she stopped now, lifting her lantern high, attempting to cast its light across the dark waters. The light revealed several yards of rippling, black waves shrouded with ethereal mist that faded rapidly into the darkness. There seemed to be no way across.
With a sigh, Clarice began to inch her way along the shore, stepping carefully over the signal cables. She stopped when she heard the music.
It began as a whisper, barely louder than the sigh of the water as it lapped against its dark shore, and gradually expanded in volume and intensity until it filled the cavern with its muffled grandeur. It was music such that she had never heard before and she paused, listening, unable to do otherwise. The abrasiveness of the chords was apparent even to her musically untrained ears and she winced as they grated harsher and harsher and the pounding in her ears swelled until she held a hand to her head, wincing at the pulsating pain.
Yet she could not stop listening even as she shook from within. There was an undeniable beauty about the harsh melodies and it was this beauty that held her spellbound, this beauty that worked through the mask of brutality and crept into her mind with long tendrils of sound.
There was a brief lull in the music as the player stopped, perhaps to write the next phrase, and Clarice shook herself. The cold of the underground cavern had not forgotten her as easily as she had forgotten it and she shivered as she turned to make her way back above ground.
She had to be extra careful during future journeys into the basements. The Phantom of the Opera had reawakened, and from the intensity of his music, she knew he was planning something. Clarice blinked from the bright stage lights as she emerged from the third cellar.
She would know the Opera Ghost's intentions soon enough. There was no need to hurry.
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The package arrived at the de Chagny estate in the mail along with a single-page note.
The butler brought it to her upon a silver tray along with the newspaper. The newspaper was ironed and neatly folded. Christine blushed from the attention as she accepted the proffered package and paper with clumsy gratitude.
In the end, it had been Raoul who had come to her flat, worried because his calls were not being answered. She had told him everything in a sobbing, embarrassed confession and ended in near hysterics, apologizing for her cowardice, but she could not marry him yet, could he ever forgive her? It seemed as if she was always asking forgiveness from someone.
Raoul had held her, murmuring soothing words of understanding into her hair as she wept. And then he had taken one look at her cramped, dismal flat and insisted that she come to stay with him at the de Chagny estate.
"There's a lovely cottage behind the mansion that my mother built for the gardener. The previous resident has since departed and you are more than welcome to the house."
Frightened and still weary with grief, she had agreed and was now glad that she had accepted his offer. The former gardener's cottage was a spacious residence with an enormous comfortable bedroom and a family-sized sitting room. Sunlight poured in through immense windows offering views of the mansion and the surrounding meadows and woods. Wooden shelves were installed into the walls underneath the windows to hold all manner of flowering plants and the servants had enjoyed themselves choosing the prettiest blossoms to decorate the airy cottage. Christine often passed long days in the sitting room curled in an armchair, a novel upon her lap, surrounded by daisies, chrysanthemums, azaleas, and carnations. If she was quiet enough, she could almost hear them breathe. There were no red roses to be found.
During the weeks and months that she had passed in the bright sunlight, relaxing in the warm comfort of the cottage, she could not help remembering her time in another residence quite different from this…many levels below ground. No manner of darkness touched her idyllic sanctuary, and she found herself savoring this freedom from fear. The bags beneath her eyes disappeared, worn smooth by the warmth of sunlight. But there would be days when her eyes would still and her breath would quiet in her lungs. At those times images and sounds would appear before her, floating as if upon a deep sea. A ghostly chord, echoing across a rippling lake, a red rose, its thorns smooth and sharp, the cool touch of porcelain beneath her hand…
It was during times like these when Raoul, a frequent visitor to the cottage, would know to take his leave, kissing her chastely on the forehead, sadness in his eyes. It was during a time like this when the package arrived in the mail and the butler startled Christine out of her reverie.
She sat staring at the parcel tied with string long after the butler had taken his leave, wondering who it could possibly be from. Who knew that she was here? She picked up the attached note and turned it over.
For the ball.
That was all it said.
Her head came up from its perusal at the burst of impatient knocking from the front door. Only one person sounded like that.
"Come in, Raoul," she said, an amused smile on her face.
He tripped into the sunlit sitting room, red-faced and winded, dressed for riding. He had not changed much in six months, his face remained boyish and well-tanned and his manner was all courteous concern.
"I have the most wonderful news, darling!" he said breathlessly and stopped when he saw the folded newspaper before her. "Oh! It seems that you already know."
Christine glanced at the newspaper for the first time
OPERA GARNIER TO REOPEN
Her eyes widened and she picked up the paper, reading the article enthusiastically. "Oh Raoul, it's in a week from now! Oh, this is wonderful…"
He grinned and, somewhat self-consciously, settled himself into the sofa beside her armchair. "I thought you might say that."
Christine continued to read. "They say that they have found a new manager, although they don't mention who…poor M Firmin."
"You haven't even gotten to the good part yet," Raoul said, picking up a paperweight from the table and playing with it.
Her eyes flew down the page and widened at the appropriate spot. "A masked ball to celebrate the opening? Oh!" She stopped, as she suddenly realized the meaning of the note. Which meant that the package must be…
"Yes, a masked ball," Raoul said, oblivious. "You've never been to one, have you? Well, it is one of the most outrageous and most amusing events you could possibly attend. Rather ridiculous overall, but an experience not to be missed. Why, what's that?" he said as he noticed the package for the first time.
"The note says it's for the ball," Christine said. She touched the paper wrapping and the object inside gave underneath the pressure of her hand. The contents felt springy and light. There was nothing for it. She pulled on the end of the string and the paper fell away. Her hand flew to her mouth. "Oh…"
Raoul stared, dumbstruck. "What is…?" His hand reached out and drew back almost immediately. "I have seen many dresses but never…what is this material?"
Christine was still at a loss for words. The sunlight reflected off the shimmering fabric of the dress and dazzled her eyes, but she could not look away. It was white, that much she could tell, but a shade and brilliance of white that she had never seen before. She touched the fabric with a reverent hand. It felt like caressing the morning dew upon fresh grass.
"Who could this be from?" Raoul asked in a hushed voice.
There were only two people that Christine could think of with the money and the cause to send such a gift. She opted for the safer of the two.
"This is too much, too much…I shall have to return this to the Duchess."
Raoul furrowed his brow in confusion. "Cassandra?" His face brightened. "Oh, but that's simply wonderful! I had no idea that she was your acquaintance as well. She will be delighted."
"But—"
"Christine, she is our friend. It would be discourteous to reject her gift."
"But Raoul, you must have already purchased a dress."
"Oh no," he said quickly, and Christine was immediately sure that he had indeed.
"No, you shall wear this to the ball. That is, if you want to."
She nodded wordlessly.
"You will look stunning, Christine." He smiled wryly. "I do not think that I will be an adequate companion."
She laughed. "Oh Raoul, don't be such a fool. How could you doubt…you've been such a wonderful friend these past few months. I…I thank you."
"No thanks are needed, Christine. It was the least I could do." A beat. Christine blushed and looked down. Raoul cleared his throat. "Christine, there is…something else I came here to discuss with you. I'm not quite sure how to broach the topic, so I will just ask you: are you sure you want to return to the Opera to sing?"
"I—" Christine floundered, not quite sure what he meant. "Of course I do, Raoul. Why, is there something wrong?"
He frowned. "You seemed so nervous all the time you were there. As if there was something you feared. I just need to know: are you happy at the Opera?"
"Raoul…" She paused. "Yes, I am very happy. Singing is my life; it always has been."
He sighed and it seemed as if it were a sigh of resigned acceptance. He raised his head to look at her and smiled weakly. "As long as you are happy."
"Raoul, what is this all about?"
"There's no need to concern yourself."
"It's your family, isn't it? They can't stand the idea of a performer—"
"I said," Raoul stated more firmly, "that there was no need to concern yourself."
"Darling, they could disown you."
His jaw twitched underneath the skin. "They will do nothing of the sort," he said shortly. "And if they do, it will be their problem, not ours. They have no right to tell you how you should live. No one should have that right," he finished softly.
She recognized the look in his eyes. "If you're talking about him…"
"Of course I am, Christine. I'm concerned for you. How do you know that he won't abduct you the moment you reappear at the Opera?"
"Because…because, he just wouldn't." She faltered, struggling for a way to explain to him, to make him understand. She looked again at his innocent, anxious face and knew that he never would. Oh Raoul…she loved him with all her heart, but he would never understand.
Christine took his hand in hers. It was dry and trembling. "Trust me, Raoul. I will be perfectly safe returning to Paris."
He swallowed and lowered his head after a moment to kiss the back of her hand. "Very well," he said, but he didn't look too happy about it. They sat in silence for a few more moments. Then Raoul brightened, standing up and pulling her from the chair. "On your feet, darling. The mare I bought last week has real spirit and I cannot wait to see you ride her."
Laughing, Christine allowed herself to be pulled to her feet.
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The crowded ballroom was filled with music, laughter, and color that dipped and weaved across the floor in the form of costumed dancers. It seemed as if all classes of Paris had turned out for the event. Clarice walked through the crowd, observing the different colors of the masks and the glitter of jewels in the warm glow of the candelabras. To her left she saw a mermaid with shimmering scales hanging on the arm of a black minotaur.
She saw Hannibal standing in a corner, speaking with Andre, who was dressed as a skeleton. Both of them looked her way, and she saw Hannibal blink as he acknowledged her presence. Andre nodded once, curtly, before both men turned aside to ignore her completely.
Clarice scoffed under her breath but turned away with a heavier heart.
As she continued to make her way through the revelers, she smiled beneath her mask as dancer after dancer glanced up at her gleaming eyes and stepped slightly back. Her costume had taken the dressmaker the entire week to craft, and only by working late into the night every single day. She had been well compensated for her toil and careful dedication to the sketches that Clarice had given to her as guidelines.
Hannibal's reaction when she had donned the dress and elaborate mask for the ball had been to raise a single questioning eyebrow. She had stared back with a cool, blank expression. There was nothing particularly scandalous about the costume, except that it was a bit…different. As for Hannibal, he would not even have come to the ball if not for his position as a patron of the Opera. The other patrons would have frowned and looked suspiciously upon his absence.
However, he utterly refused to wear anything other than a dress suit and a plain black mask covering his entire face. In retaliation, Clarice had abandoned him at the Grand Staircase and sauntered off into the crowded ballroom where her identity became indistinguishable from the other dancers. The musicians struck up the waltz from Berlioz's Symphonie Fantastique and Clarice felt the world start to swirl in a whirlpool of color. The sea of smiles around her rippled as dancers bowed and twirled across the floor with their partners.
She laughed in sheer joy and freedom and not a single head turned to regard her with curiosity or recognized the aristocrat beneath the costume. With her smile hidden beneath the black fabric of her mask, her eyes swept over the dance floor once more with a more scrutinizing gaze. She found it eventually – the center of the whirlpool, the lone, solitary figure undisturbed by the chaotic frenzy swirling about him – standing against a wall, a red wide-brimmed plumed hat pulled low over a grinning skull.
The plan had worked perfectly. Now…now, she must approach him. What to say to a ghost?
But Clarice had barely taken a step in the direction of the red phantasm when her eyes were dazzled by another sight. She turned, as did half of the ballroom, to regard this new wonder, descending the staircase in shimmering white.
The Phantom of the Opera pressed himself as closely against the wall as he could as the hems of dresses brushed against the crimson fabric of his costume. He forced his breathing to remain steady as he constantly reminded himself that no one could possibly recognize him as he was now.
Silently, he watched the masquerade unfold around him, an unreadable expression in his searching eyes. Aristocrats, bourgeoisie, and the braver members of the working class sharing the same dance floor with no signs of bitterness or contempt. The conglomerate swirl of colors and laughter had deftly erased class lines for the duration of the night. Soldiers shared a toast with tipsy coachmen, noblemen bowed at the feet of actresses, and clergymen boasted about their visits to brothels to their ignorant superiors; all citizens shielded from the consequences of their audacity by the paper faces of animals and other beings that had never before walked the face of the earth.
But there were some sins that even a masked face could not forgive. Even as Erik stood silently, attempting to melt into the wall, he did not fail to notice the clearly defined empty space around himself. Dancers that approached within five feet of him shied away as if they could sense the coldness that radiated from his still form. Even with his ugly face hidden from view, he was helpless to hide the ugliness of his soul. There was no sanctuary for this abomination.
Feeling as if he were emerging from a deep sleep, Erik pulled his mind away from such heavy thoughts and focused on his purpose at hand. It would not be long now.
Shifting his gaze to the middle of the floor, he saw a lady dressed in a magnificent black costume with scarves trailing from her body like black smoke. Erik wasn't even sure what it was until she lifted her arms. What he had mistaken for scarves were in fact wings with metallic black feathers covering the gauzy material. She turned her head slightly, and Erik could see the blue eye winking out from the eyeholes of the elaborate beaked mask and the patch of iridescent purple at the throat so dark it faded into the rest of the black plumage.
All around the nightbird, other dancers were stepping out of her path as she strode through their midst with a regal bearing. Erik could not place her. Carlotta, perhaps? Yet, the figure's seemed wrong, too elegant rather than arrogant.
He looked away, his eyes now roaming the crowds, searching for a figure in white, as his mind was plagued with doubt. His breath was still coming in nervous gasps when he felt the atmosphere of the ballroom change. The orchestra played on unawares but all around the dancers were stopping, their gaze fixated on the staircase at the back of the room.
Slowly, Erik shifted his gaze…
If light could be sewn into solid form, that might best describe the dress she was wearing. All around her, dancers were stepping out of her path, their masked faces frozen as always in their expressions of shock, fear, gaiety, or anxiety. But their movements were frozen as well, and their voices were silent as they beheld this apparition descended from the heavens.
Erik could only look upon her and feel the breath taken from his body. He saw the nervousness in her face as she made her way through the silent crowds and he tried not to see her companion, whose arm she clung to in anxiety. The dress flowed about her legs like gentle waves as she walked across the floor.
The first silk cloth was sent from China to Ancient Rome in the second century by horseback, a journey that took several years. Europe had been trying to replicate the marvelous fabric ever since with continuous failure. Silk was available in Paris, of course, from all the first-rate shops, but the finest pieces had been leached away over the years it took to travel from the Orient to Europe. Middlemen, thieves, and self-grubbing traders took it upon themselves to skim off the top of their precious cargo.
This, though…this dress was a souvenir from Persia, the first trading stop from the source. Erik had seen it at the market and, entranced by all things beautiful, had bought it without a second thought. The dress had lain folded neatly in the midst of his personal possessions and there it had remained, even when he was forced to flee for his life. He had not considered then that he would ever use it. He had retained it as a memory of one of the few beautiful things of that accursed country.
Now the rich white material was caressing its new owner like a lover, its whispering threads embracing flesh that Erik would never dare touch. The elliptical patterns set into the fabric curled about her like wisps of smoke. The warm light of candelabras bathed the creamy fabric in a heavenly glow.
Almost absently, he saw the nightbird approach her and begin to speak. He nearly frowned to see such darkness approaching his angel, like the moon's carcass moving to eclipse the sun, but stopped when he saw Christine's face light up. She smiled and dropped a polite curtsey before the dark figure. They began to speak animatedly as Raoul stood to the side, smiling politely.
Erik felt a surge of something remarkably like hatred rush through his body as he stared at the boy, the Vicomte de Chagny, and looked back instead at Christine. The angels in heaven had never shone so brightly as she did. And her smiling face beneath the white eye mask and the glittering wire-frame wings attached to her dress completed a picture that would have caused God to shed tears of joy to behold.
He felt something inside of him shrink away.
"Christine Daaé, you look absolutely stunning tonight!"
"Thank you, madam," Christine replied, still breathless from her unexpected reception by the crowd. "Your choice of costume is spectacular as well. I would have never recognized you."
"That is the purpose, my dear," Clarice said with an unseen smile beneath her beaked mask. She saw the young woman looking pointedly at her. "The common starling, Sturnus vulgaris, is quite an ordinary bird," she said, answering her unspoken question. "They are beautiful to look at, though, with feathers blacker than night and piercing eyes. You may have seen them in your garden." She directed the last statement towards Raoul, who was still standing slightly back and beginning to look uncomfortable.
"Indeed," he said, relieved to be speaking at last, "although, I must say, none ever looked as lovely as you." With that, he stepped forward with a smile and raised her hand to his lips. "Madam Starling," he said as he kissed the back of her gloved hand.
Clarice laughed, feeling a prickling sensation on the back of her head as she did and knowing that Hannibal was watching. "You speak too boldly, Raoul. I doubt your fiancée would be pleased."
Some of the joviality left his face. "Actually, Cassandra…we're not engaged…officially anymore."
"I'm sorry," Clarice said quickly, looking mortified. "I should not have mentioned it."
He shook his head ruefully. "Think nothing of it," he said in a tight voice, noticing how Christine was not smiling anymore.
Clarice cast about frantically for something to say. "It is made of silk, is it not? The dress?"
"Oh yes," Raoul, accepting the change of subject. "Although silk of a quality I have never the likes of in Europe. I would say that it had been shipped directly from the source, wouldn't you agree, Duchess?"
"Wouldn't I what? I—" Clarice saw Christine's suddenly stricken face. "—oh yes, I…well, I can't be giving away my trade secrets, can I, Raoul? Though, I am glad the dress was to your liking."
Christine looked up and the Duchess saw that there were tears in her eyes. "Mere words will never describe my thanks," she whispered almost absently. Clarice merely gave her a look of knowing suspicion.
He continued to watch her even after the ballroom had roused itself and was moving once more around him like oil against water. It was good that she did not still hate and fear him so much as to reject his gift. This would make things so much easier when she graced the stage once more, this time in his opera. He almost didn't hear the voice when it spoke – cutting through his thoughts like a silver arrow in the dark.
"Monsieur."
Erik tore his eyes away from the white image of Christine and looked around for the source of the voice. He was confronted by a figure in shimmering black. Bird-bright ovals peered from within the eyeholes of the elaborate mask. She was extending a wing towards him like a holy offering and he saw that the wing ended in a slender black-gloved hand.
"May I have this dance?"
He looked at the extended hand as if it were a rattlesnake. Then his eyes traveled up the arm until they met the winking eyes behind the mask. He opened his mouth to say no, but felt himself giving a curt nod and extending a red-draped arm to clasp her hand.
He felt his mind swimming in a half-daze as the nightbird led him onto the dance floor. The orchestra struck up a mazurka, and he began to move across the floor, holding the dark figure as lightly as if she were a wisp of smoke. Because of his mask, he could look at her without her realizing it, and he did, searching deep within the bright blue eyes for the answers he was determined to find.
Her companion's fingers were long and skeletal, but they moved gracefully within hers, holding them lightly as she spun, her dress flowing about her legs.
"You are a fine dancer, monsieur," Clarice said.
No response.
"However, your costume seems rather morbid considering the occasion."
Her dance partner tilted his head to one side, the plume of his hat swaying with his movements and his unchanging mask grinning its toothy grin. They had danced their way into a more isolated part of the floor and few couples moved around them.
"I can see that you have no taste for pointless conversation, monsieur," she said. "Then perhaps this would be more to your interest." She pressed herself closer to him, moving her beaked mouth towards his ear, not missing how he pulled away at her advance. Her voice lowered to a whisper. "A year's worth of your salary has been spent replacing the chandelier that you so unkindly dropped. Therefore, I suggest that you show more restraint in your little tricks in the future, for the sake of both our livelihoods."
The amber eyes deep within the mask went wide and every single muscle in his body tensed. Clarice tightened her grip on his hand, not intending to let him disappear.
The Phantom spun them both around, the red and black cloth of their costumes swirling around them like flames in the night. And when they came back around, his eyes were calm once more.
"Yes, the chandelier was a nasty accident, wasn't it?" he sneered. "But it was very old and worn, very old indeed. It was only a matter of time until it fell." Muffled though it was by the mask and derisive in its tone, there was no mistaking the beauty of the voice. For a moment Clarice stared, mystified, before remembering her original purpose.
"I speak on behalf of the Opera's new management," she said. "We desire a truce, monsieur, and a moratorium on your monthly salary until we have adequate funds once more. You, of course, are welcome to name the terms you desire in return, within reason. What say you?"
The Phantom never missed a beat of the mazurka, even when he began to laugh softly. "I say that your words do not befit your position, madam." With a deft touch, he guided them away from a couple that had danced too close. "First, I do not know how you recognized me, but you know nothing about me. You are in no position to make demands upon a ghost, and the Opera Ghost does not take orders from anyone."
Clarice turned her face away as they danced past Andre and Hannibal, who were still deep in conversation. "Monsieur," she hissed, nearly forgetting to whisper. "I have told you that I do not desire war between us."
"Second," he continued, ignoring her, "Andre would sing soprano before he permitted a woman to act as his business partner."
"Ah," Clarice said, "You would be surprised how pliable Andre can be now that his partner is…deceased."
"Are you implying that I had something to do with Firmin's death as well?" the Phantom said, his tone deceptively calm.
"My words hold no more meaning than you give them credit for, M le Fantome," she said.
He stopped suddenly, two beats before the mazurka concluded, and Clarice stumbled against him. He pulled back, looking at her, a new expression in his eyes. A beat. His voice when he spoke again had lost all its mockery. "So be it…Duchesse de Londres."
Clarice laughed shortly, aware of other dancers parting and choosing new partners for the next dance. "I suppose that masks are no use against those accustomed to wearing them at all times," she said.
The Phantom let go of her abruptly. His head tilted to one side again as he regarded her with eyes filled suddenly with anger, then understanding, then undisguised curiosity. He continued to look at her for a moment. Then, with a curt nod, he turned to go.
"Monsieur," Clarice said to his retreating back. "What of your terms?"
He halted without turning back around, the beginnings of a smile forming behind the mask. "You will know soon enough," he said. And he disappeared into the colorful sea of costumed dancers.
Clarice stood for a minute as the dancers moved around her in another waltz. The orchestra had a limited repertoire, it seemed. She waited until a couple almost collided with her before moving off towards a particular corner.
As she glided across the floor, she replayed her encounter with the Phantom over and over in her mind. So far, she could not think of anything terribly wrong she had said and it seemed as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders, though the true test surely lay ahead.
She found Hannibal again and looped her arm around his, beaming contently as Andre looked at them. If her husband was surprised, he did not show it. "What have you been up to, my darling?" He was speaking absently, his tone trained to perfection, playing the role of the concerned husband, and his mind was miles away.
Clarice answered in the same fashion. "Dancing, my dear," she said, a smile stitched upon her face on behalf of the patchwork of eyes that watched. "Dancing for the sake of us all," she finished, lowering her voice to a whisper.
She did not have long to wait.
There was a burst of red smoke accompanied by sounds not unlike fireworks. Activity in the ballroom ceased as all eyes turned to look to the top of the staircase. The smoke seemed to solidify, and a figure emerged in crimson robes, grinning at the spectators with his death's head.
Time passed, maybe a second, maybe several minutes before the figure moved and the entire room took a breath.
Christine shrank back, resembling a ghost in her white dress that paled with her fear when it had previously shone so brightly. But the grinning skeleton in red passed by her without a second glance.
Andre turned as white as the bones of his costume as the Phantom's gaze came to rest on him. He looked quickly, desperately in Clarice's direction and looked away when he saw the blank look on her face. He whimpered softly as the Phantom stopped before him.
"Why so silent, good monsieur?" The roomful of listeners leaned closer to the haunting voice even as they shivered. "Did you think that I had left you for good? Did you miss me?"
To all eyes, the Phantom was speaking solely to a quivering, white-faced Gilles Andre. A manuscript bound in leather could be seen tucked under one arm with Don Juan Triumphant imprinted across the cover in an untidy, angry scrawl.
"I hear that business has been poor these past few months and for that I apologize. But you will find the Opera Ghost quite willing to compromise when dealing with a reasonable person. A quality that, I am afraid to say, you lack utterly."
He took another step in Andre's direction and then, turning at the last moment, he thrust the score into Clarice's hands. The touch was electric and she felt her fingers curling protectively around the leather cover of the manuscript in response.
Well, that blew my cover rather effectively.
She raised a glaring gaze to the Phantom only to find him matching her glare for glare, his unchanging skeletal face angled to one side as if in humor. She could feel his smile, his sideways, sardonic smile beneath the mask.
"I have written you an opera!" the Phantom said in a booming voice that could be heard throughout the entire room before his tone changed to a sibilant hiss. "I trust that my instructions will be quite clear."
Clarice felt herself swell with outrage, and yet her indignation was overshadowed by something resembling thrill. She fixed her eyes upon those of the Phantom. A look passed between them and she nodded, slightly, so that only he could see. She would play this game.
He removed his great plumed hat and bowed spectacularly, it was a grand sweeping gesture. Setting the hat back atop his ever-grinning facemask, he turned to go.
"Get him!" Andre roared, regaining his senses at last.
A minotaur and a bullfrog leaped forward to comply before a great cloud of fiery smoke surrounded the skeleton in red and drove them back. Clarice coughed from the smoke, knowing before it cleared that he was long gone. Always dramatic, this one, she thought, smiling.
It was time to take her leave as well. Already, heads were turning to regard and whisper about the mysterious lady in black who had been the focus of the Phantom's attention. Eyes wandered to the bound score in her hands and people were edging away from her, as if she were holding a bowl of the Lord's wrath on Judgment Day.
Out of the corner of her eye, Clarice saw Christine pull away from Raoul, who made an ineffectual attempt to grab her hand as she ran up the staircase and out the door.
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A/N: H/C, R/C, E/C, oh my, will any of them work out? And to which "C" am I referring to in each case? Oh the possibilities…*evil grin* For your (semi) peace of mind, I will say that I am no fan of OW stories, no matter how much I may like the particular other woman. However, this does not mean that I am beyond toying with your minds. *evil grin #2*
Another bit of info: The mazurka was a courtly dance imported from Poland during the Romantic Era. It was traditional for women to choose their partners for this dance.