A/N: Many hugs once again to reviewers who make my world go round. I agonized over this chapter for weeks. It's one of those transition chapters, important but slow...this one takes place as I prepare to unleash hell for Don Juan Triumphant. Hopefully it'll still be as exciting as the next few are going to be. There's some E/C semi-fluff, Carlotta insults the wrong person, and Raoul has fireballs thrown at him. What's not to like? ;)
The beginning of Chapter 6 has been completely rewritten. The original form was way ambiguous and was terrible transition from the previous chapter. Hopefully the new version works better.
And even more big news, I'm going to see the play on Broadway on Valentine's Day!! Finally!! That's in less than three days!! I've got 7th row orchestra seats to the sold out matinee. I'm so excited I can barely think. :-DDD I will definitely tell more after I get back...hopefully through a fast update of the next chapter. But for now...enjoy!
Chapter 10Fallen Angels
Barely after Clarice Starling had finished dancing for the life of the Opera House, Christine was racing through the empty hallways outside the ballroom. The noise of the orchestra and dancers faded into the background. She did not know her destination - merely that she must run until she found him.
The memories of the lively ballroom, the laughter, the bright sunlight peering through the windows of an airy cottage were disappearing. In this place, this place that was his realm there was nothing but the here and now. And having seen him again, she felt she would go mad unless she found some answers to the questions burning in her mind.
He had sent the dress but then had barely looked at her. Did he despise her still? And how did the Duchess know him? Her small feet sounded unnaturally loud in the empty corridors.
"Christine..."The voice sang effortlessly through the walls and settled in her ear, beckoning her attention. She stopped, finding herself before the door to her dressing room. Taking a deep breath, she placed a hand on the knob and pushed the door open, feeling a bit silly about entering her own dressing room with such anxiety.
The lamps were already lit, the oil turned as low as possible, bathing the tiny room in a faint glow. The mirror on her wall was dark. Reaching out, she turned up the flames in the lamps and a resulting golden gleam appeared in the mirror.
Taking a deep breath, she stood before the glass, seeing her pale, ghostlike reflection. "Master...?" she said. Her voice sounded steady to her ears.
A great sigh filled the room and the lamps seemed to flicker.
"You look absolutely lovely tonight, my dear."
Her eyes were so very wide and he fancied that he could see himself in them, a lurking shadow behind the silver of the mirror reflected in her irises. She was an angel in white, trembling and frail in unfamiliar dress and unfamiliar glory. He smiled, tracing her outline in the air with his hand.
"The wings were an especially nice touch."
He saw her take a breath and the white wings shimmered as her body trembled. "Thank you," she murmured nervously. "You're...you're not mad then?"
Erik sighed. She must feel it, too. He fancied that the coldness must radiate even through the silvered glass of the mirror. He made a half-hearted attempt to muffle it, swirling his cloak around his front, the fabric moving like a whisper of a bird's wing. He saw Christine strain to hear the sound, but she did not approach any closer.
"No," he said at last. "No, Christine, I could never stay mad at you."
"I was, I was afraid then...the chandelier, I heard your voice as it fell. I was so afraid that I had done something terribly wrong that you should be so angry."
Erik touched the back of the mirror with his hand, feeling the cold smoothness of the glass beneath his fingers. "No, not you, Christine. Not then."
"Not then? I don't-" She paled in understanding. "You saw us, didn't you? On the rooftop afterwards?"
Deafening silence was her only answer.
"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, angel. I...I don't know what I was thinking. I forgot my music and what you had done for me, I forgot everything, I was so scared...but I broke it! I broke the engagement." She paused, straining to hear a response that was not forthcoming. "Master...please, won't you answer me?"
"It matters not that you broke the engagement," Erik said, the coldness returning to his voice, even as his mind was screaming in contradiction. "It matters that you even considered such a thing. That you would sacrifice your music for a...a bauble on your finger and a noble name." And a handsome face. He did not speak the thought, but suddenly his mask seemed unnaturally heavy.
"Will you not even speak his name?" Christine said, tears beginning to form behind her eyes. "Raoul has been my friend since childhood. I was frightened, I..." All strength abandoned her then and she collapsed upon the divan before the mirror, sobbing. "I'm so sorry, angel, I'm so sorry. Please forgive me..."
His hand shook where it pressed against the mirror as he saw Christine fall over the armrest of the divan. He watched his angel in white weeping, shedding sparkling tears...for him! For want of his forgiveness. She was begging his forgiveness, the forgiveness of a cold and twisted man that she continued to think of as her angel. He would have laughed if he had been confident it would not have emerged as a sob. He lifted his fingers from the back of the mirror. They left no imprint in their absence, as if the flesh that had touched it had possessed none of the warmth of the living.
"Christine..."The voice was gentle, forgiving, and she looked up, blinking back tears.
"I set out to make your song take wing, and to that promise I hold. I will do anything for you, Christine, anything. I would never hurt you..." No more than he had already. "You...do not belong in their world, my dear."
"I...I don't understand."
He allowed himself a sad smile at her innocence. "The aristocracy does not look kindly upon actresses. They would destroy you."
Her mouth fell open in shocked disbelief. Something tugged sharply on the back of her mind. The memory of the rooftop kiss she and Raoul had shared was fading, obscured by the hypnotic voice emanating from behind the mirror. But she could not reconcile the smiling, dripping-wet boy holding her scarf with the image that her teacher presented now. She reached, groping desperately for a firm grasp upon the memory.
She swallowed and spoke in an indignant voice. "Raoul doesn't care, he's not like the rest-"
"Your Vicomte may not mind, but everyone else will. Do not be so naïve as to think that he could shield you from their scornful eyes."
She hesitated before speaking again. "Cassandra's not like the rest of them either."
Erik sensed the anticipation behind her statement. This was no thoughtless remark. "The Duchess...has her own problems at the moment."
He saw the tension within her dissipate, to be replaced by disappointed curiosity. Christine was not the only curious one. Time and time again, Erik replayed what had passed between the Duchess and himself as they had danced. The Red Death and the nightbird: what a macabre pair they had made! She had spoken the same words he had heard so many years ago from another mouth, and he had felt as if his head would spin off his shoulders. Dr. Fell was in Paris once more, and with a wife! He wondered if his wife knew of his past.
Some things were better left unknown.
Erik stared through the mirror at his angel, feeling as if a great chasm rather than a simple pane of glass lay between them. He should have never risked opening his soul to her, never desired more than to admire her from the safety of darkness, never desired her touch like a normal man...
What he could not undo, he would help her forget. Making his voice as tender and hypnotic as possible, he spoke once again through the mirror.
"You will fly, mon ange . You will soar beyond the highest heavens," he whispered, and already he could see the familiar expression of enchanted wonder creeping across her face. He projected his voice to her ear, caressing her mind with his gentle words. "I will help you, Christine, I have always helped you. Trust me..."
As his final words reverberated into silence, he began to sing softly, a wordless lullaby, and watched as Christine's eyes glazed over.
She could not describe what was happening to her. When once she had been afraid, she now felt at ease although she couldn't say exactly why. Nothing had changed, but the softness of the divan had never felt so enveloping and her eyelids never so heavy. She lay down slowly upon her stomach, taking care not to damage the wings of her costume. She closed her eyes as her Angel's voice wove a magical tapestry about her with an exotic, soothing melody that sapped the strength from her body and yet made her heart beat erratically.
Christine did not feel the breath of frigid air as the mirror swung upon its pivot or the hand that brushed a stray curl from her face with a light touch.
"Return to your Angel..."
Lost in the velvet darkness of sleep, Christine strained towards the voice and suddenly she saw herself soaring effortlessly through the heavens. It was beautiful here, the sun was rising high above the land her father had woven with his stories.
There was an ice-cold touch upon her back; she could feel it even through the fabric of her dress and the vision faltered. Ragged edges of darkness crept into her mind, bringing with it the image of a ghastly visage. How could she forget such a thing...?
But the hands were moving now, lifting the wire-frame wings from her dress and drawing a blanket over her body before moving away. Christine felt herself falling back into the warmth of sleep, and she couldn't remember what she had just been thinking.
With an effort, she opened her eyes; muted blue slivers embedded in pale skin saw the wings resting atop the chair next to the divan, neatly folded and serene. Her eyes fell closed and the last thing she remembered before drifting into a dreamless sleep was the image of those wings, the sequins sparkling like fairy dust staining the backs of her eyelids.
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By the next afternoon, circumstances had not improved for the co-managers of the Opera Populaire.
"I don't like this."
"It is not a matter of liking, Gilles. The Opera needs something to open its new season. The Phantom delivered - in grand fashion that the future audience will not quickly forget."
"But, look at this!" Andre gestured wildly to the red-streaked pages of the manuscript that lay open upon his desk. "This is ludicrous! Have you even seen the score? Here!" He jabbed fiercely at a particularly angry-looking jumble of notes. "What composer in his right mind throws four keys together in a single chord? The orchestra will have a fit!"
"I am not well-versed in music," Clarice said, picking a note off her desk. "But it seems to me as if this composer would be unlikely to follow rules of any sort." She unfolded the single-page note and began to read, her eyes widening as she did. "And the orchestra will have a lot more to worry about than difficult music."
She handed the note to Andre, who snatched it from her hand before reading it. His face grew darker with every line and when he finished, he was fuming. "No, this is the final straw! The Opera Ghost will not have say over the members of the orchestra. The third trombone has been with us for over twenty years."
"Then perhaps the years have dulled his ear."
Andre whirled upon her. "What?" he said disbelievingly. "You can't be serious. You're agreeing with him?"
"Don't you understand, Gilles, we have no choice! You have seen what the Phantom can do, or have you forgotten the chandelier already?"
A muscle in Andre's jaw twitched. "Insults are unnecessary, madam."
"I wish only to make you see sense. This piece," Clarice passed her hand over the manuscript, "This...is written by the Phantom of the Opera himself. What denizen of Paris would pass up the opportunity to hear it? Do you realize how good this will be for us? How profitable?"
Only after her last sentence did something in Andre's face change as he realized, suddenly, the sort of windfall that had landed in his hands. "Of course," he whispered, reverently, inspired by the only god he worshipped, "The receipts from the pre-sales are sure to be...legendary. Yes, yes...I will write to the orchestra director right away." He sat down and began scribbling furiously.
Clarice knew better than to expect any sort of thanks. She turned away instead, a sly smile tugging on the edges of her lips, and picked up another note from her desk. She dropped it when the door suddenly swung open, banging against the wall with a shuddering crash. She looked up to see a witch framed in the entrance.
The Spanish diva that stood in the doorway was drawn up to her full height, trembling from barely suppressed rage, and looked for all intents and purposes like an old crone itching to slaughter a lamb for her brew. A few strands of red hair fell in front of her face as she brandished a note in her hands. Clarice was struck with an overwhelming sense of déjà vu.
"This is an outrage!" Carlotta shrieked in a tone that could have peeled paint from the walls. The infuriated redhead stormed towards the man she believed was in charge. On her way she spied the Phantom's score resting atop the desk and her eyes bulged. "Have you seen the size of my part??" she seethed, shaking the note in Andre's face, who held his hands out before his face in a gesture of supplication. "Please, please..." he said. Clarice saw him send a pleading look her way. She shrugged.
Where Carlotta had previously stood in the doorway, Clarice could now see a hefty man with a thick beard and mustache and a ham-sized fist curled wrathfully around a similar note. She could not quite place him. And then he opened his mouth and spoke. "It's an insult to the both of us!" Ah - with a voice like that - he must have been the man she had seen on her very first day at the Opera, the man playing the general Hannibal. She watched the man walk past her to stand by Carlotta, placing a protective hand on her shoulder.
Clarice glanced from the man to Carlotta and back to the man. She resisted the urge to gag from the thought.
The man waved his cast list under Andre's nose with similar fury. "Have you seen what we are meant to sing? What utter rubbish!" he finished, jabbing his finger at the score.
"And that Christine Daae," Carlotta hissed. "She has something to do with this, I know it. How else she could have gotten the main role, I do not know." The diva's eyes flashed with anger before alighting upon the open score once again, and her upper lip curled in disgust. "Let's just get rid of this and be done with it," she snapped, reaching purposefully toward the leather-bound pages.
Quick as lightning, Clarice snatched the score from the desk and snapped it shut, tucking it protectively under her arm. "You," she said in a tightly controlled voice, "will kindly keep your hands off what does not belong to you."
Carlotta began to swell like a bloated hen. The burly man squeezed her shoulder while shooting Clarice a venomous glare. She couldn't have cared less. Her fingers wrapped around the smooth edges of Don Juan Triumphant and held it close as if it were her child. She knew then that she would do whatever it took to protect it. Dammit, she had made a promise, and with her ridiculous, inviolate sense of honor, she would hold herself to it.
Nor was she alone in her determination. Andre, with the glitter of gold in his eyes, stepped forward with uncommon resolve. "I am afraid," he said, "that in this instance, I will have to agree. I am sorry that this is not the sort of role you are used to, Carlotta. Or you, Piangi. But, right now, it is best for the Opera if we do what the Phantom demands."
"You can't be serious!" Piangi gasped.
"This is an outrage!" Carlotta fumed, unable to think of anything else to say. She pointed a finger at Clarice without looking at her. "And who is she?"
They were spared from answering as Raoul staggered into the room, one arm supporting Christine. The young singer was wearing her dress from the night before and a glazed expression in her eyes, as if she were just waking from a deep sleep. Raoul's eyes were pained and the cuffs and front of his white shirt were covered with scorch marks.
"This has gone on long enough!" he shouted to no one in particular.
"What are you talking about, monsieur?" Andre asked, his head beginning to spin from all the shouting.
"The Phantom-"
"Her!" Carlotta's contemptuous gaze had seen only Christine, and she pointed a trembling finger in her direction. "She's the one behind this! Christine Daae!"
All color drained from Christine's face and her empty eyes filled with anger. White with indignation, she opened her mouth, intent on speaking her mind at last, consequences be damned. Someone else spoke it for her.
"You evil bitch. How dare you??"
There was a stunned silence that lasted a lifetime.
Carlotta whirled upon her, wisps of hair escaping from her bun. "And just who do you think you are, madam? Do you know who you are talking to?" Andre, face as white as Christine's, made wild, emphatic gestures.
"I..." Clarice said, with a smile like a lioness cornering her prey, "am your new manager."
She saw the diva's lips tighten a fraction of an inch before she turned to Andre. "What is she saying? Monsieur..." her voice faltered at the look on his face. "Monsieur, surely this is a joke?" she finished in a whisper. Andre sighed helplessly.
The silence in the room was more agonizing than the first. Carlotta turned ever so slowly and her shoulders dropped. Clarice watched without emotion as she squirmed like a worm on a hook. Yet as the painful shock and anguish seized the elegant, powdered face, something inside of her gave a little. "Madame Carlotta," she said slowly. The woman's eyes shifted frantically in fear. "I...apologize for my harsh language." She paused. "You will do the same."
Carlotta looked at her disbelievingly and then seemed to come to her senses. She turned to face Christine. "Mademoiselle Daae, I did not mean to...accuse you." She closed her eyes as if she were in pain. "I - I apologize."
Dazed, Christine nodded. She glanced over at the Duchess in awe, but Clarice did not look at her. Her eyes were troubled.
The significance of the moment did not escape Piangi's notice. The burly man took his hand off of Carlotta's slumped shoulder and looked at Clarice warily. Andre fidgeted with his pen. Raoul let go of Christine, who swayed on her feet but did not fall, and pushed past all of them to point at the leather-bound manuscript in Clarice's hands.
"Is that it?" he asked in a harsh voice. Without waiting for an answer, he continued, "We cannot perform this. The composer is completely insane..."
Clarice's eyes swept over the burn marks on his shirt cuffs. "Raoul, what happened?"
He looked over at Christine. She was rocking back and force on her heels, wringing her hands nervously. "Last night...I could not find her after the ball. I searched for an hour before your husband informed me that she had gone home. Naturally, I believed him and returned to my own residence only to discover the next day that Christine had never left the Opera. I found her in her dressing room just a few minutes ago. She was standing before the mirror and it seemed as if someone behind it were singing to her. It sounded like some form of vocal exercise. Christine saw me in the mirror when I walked in and she looked so frightened.
"Before I could even move, the entire mirror swung open and I saw a figure all in black standing behind it. He was wearing a white mask over half of his face...then he spoke. 'You!' he said, and his voice was filled with hatred and that was when I knew it was him." Raoul shuddered and lifted his hands and Clarice saw that the skin of his palms was red and swollen.
"He lifted his hand and an enormous ball of fire flew at me. I was burned rather badly before I threw it off onto the ground. Christine screamed...he disappeared. The coward ran away before I could follow him. I couldn't open the mirror. He's...he's done something to her. I know it! Look at her, she's hardly the same anymore. We have to end this, we have free her..."
He trailed off significantly and looked down, seemed to ponder something. When he lifted his head again, Clarice could see the light of madness kindling in his eyes. He made a sudden movement towards her and the score in her hands.
"I've got it!" he exclaimed. "This opera, the Phantom wrote it, right? And he wants Christine to sing the lead. And if she does, he is certain to attend. We'll lock the doors and place armed men at every entrance. We'll surely catch him then!" He paused for air after his speech, looking around triumphantly as he saw heads nodding signs of approval. Save one.
"Raoul," Clarice said at last. "Forgive me, but...that is the stupidest idea I have ever heard."
The young vicomte flushed red and looked around to her with an expression of stunned bewilderment. The silence this time was longer as Clarice mentally berated herself for the second time that night.
"Think of it," she explained calmly, realizing that there was no taking back her words. "The Phantom wrote this opera. Do you not think that he would be sure to know everything about our plans for it?"
"Well," Raoul said, with an expression like that of a sulking child, "unless you are on his side, I see no way that he would find out."
"Oh Raoul, don't be such a fool," Clarice muttered. And at the word 'fool' she placed her hand against the hollow wall of the office. "There are other ways."
"Yes, there are," he said, his tone accusing. "I saw who you danced with last night. How long have you known the monster?"
Out of the corner of her eye, Clarice saw Christine wince. "That," she said coldly, "is none of your concern. M Andre will vouch for me that I have the Opera's best interests at heart."
"You have no idea how dangerous he is," Raoul said.
Clarice looked at his scorched shirtfront. The boy must have rushed headlong at the mirror, intent on battling the Phantom directly. "No," she said, "I think it is you who has no idea. A few seconds ago, you couldn't bear to think of performing this opera and now not only do you want us to perform it but you're using Mlle Daae as bait?" She was goading him deliberately, and she saw that he was responding. Good, make him angry, make him realize his foolishness...
"Raoul." All heads turned as the quiet voice of Christine Daae spoke at last. "Don't make me do this. Please. I'm...I'm frightened."
Glaring briefly at Clarice, the young man crossed the room to clasp her hands in his, murmuring soothing words of comfort. "Christine...if we do this, it will all be over. You said yourself that he was nothing but a man. He can't possibly escape us this time."
"How-how can I betray my teacher? How can I...I have no choice, I know. He has killed, he is a danger to everyone, but Raoul, I'm so scared."
He rubbed her hands vigorously with his own, as if he hoped to drive away the chill of the monster with his warmth. "Shh...we'll keep you safe. You will never have to be afraid again."
Christine put her arms around him and nodded her head from where it was buried in his shirtfront. A single tear coursed down her cheek. Raoul could not see it.
"I will phone the fire department at once," Andre said.
"And tell the Sûreté to send their best marksman," Raoul said, his arms still around Christine. Carlotta and Piangi silently slipped out of the room satisfied that their complaints were being addressed at last. Raoul looked into Clarice's stubborn, disbelieving face. "You're either with us or against us, Cassandra," he said, and she could see the mad determination in his eyes.
Clarice looked from person to person. "Gilles?" she queried.
The man shrugged and she could almost feel him tipping underneath the weight of the majority. "This foolishness has gone on long enough," he said.
She looked over at Raoul and Christine, locked in an embrace, her head pressed against his chest. She watched Christine close her eyes, shutting out the world. Something rose in Clarice's throat, tasting of rust and ashes, and she recognized it as disgust. Her hand moved over the hollow wall, resting against the wood and molding for a significant moment before she drew away. The opera would be performed.
"Very well," she said.
She placed the score flat upon her desk, heard the muffled sound of leather against wood. Something twisted inside her stomach and she felt as if she were placing the lid atop a coffin.
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Dun dun dun...the semi-calm before the storm. If you haven't guessed by now, this story is going to be long. I think we passed the halfway point a chapter or two ago. As if I would leave things the way ALW did! Things in the next chapter: the premiere of Don Juan, Clarice does some more suspicious things, the first of two showdowns, and explaining Christine's manic-depressiveness.