A/N: See? Much longer. :) (Refinished! Sorry, guys; this chappie had a lot of errors in the dialogue, but it's all fixed now, I hope. If I missed something, please let me know!)
Disclaimer: Yes, yes, we all know I don't own anything having to do with PoTO except this story.
She saw me, I think. It seemed that Madame Giry's cold, piercing gaze followed me everywhere I went within this Opera House, but she never breathed a word of it to anyone except when presenting my letters to the appropriate recipients. Despite her respectful silence, my inability to hide from her made me inexplicably nervous. I found refuge in shadow, solace in the thought that I could simply disappear whenever the need arose. For this reason, I tried in vain to meld into the darkest corners of the overhanging scenery above the stage as the letter fluttered to her feet. She did not look up- it seemed that she sensed my uneasiness- but nodded as she lifted it delicately, eyeing the crimson seal. She turned the envelope over and eyed the scribbled red text with narrowed eyes, then turned promptly on her heel and strode confidently over to the new managers.
"La Carlotta will be back," Andre assured himself as Madame Giry approached him from behind. I stifled a snort of laughter; I would not soon forget the look on that Italian pig's face as the scenery came crashing down on top of her. Nor would I forget the smile that her squawking had brought to Christine's face. Now there was nothing standing in her way. It was time for her to present her exceptional talent to all of Paris.
"You think so, Monsieurs?" Giry asked, a well-plucked eyebrow cocked slightly in amusement. She tilted her chin, putting on an air of jaded aggravation as she held the envelope to Andre. "I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost."
Without even reading the contents, she knew by the address what I wished to tell these naive businessmen, and did so unflinchingly, despite the shrill chatter and squealing of the chorus girls at the sight of the familiar skeletal seal.
"The Opera Ghost!" the girls twittered, their young faces lifting in a combination of delight and fear. My eyes snapped automatically to Christine, who was chewing her lower lip pensively. I nodded to myself; she was preparing. I had told her of my plans the night before, warning her that La Carlotta would soon become "ill," leaving the leading role in Hannibal wide open for her to claim. We had rehearsed the song from Act Three into the late hours of the night. She was ready.
"Oh, God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!" Firmin chimed in, glancing in disgust at the chipper young chorus girls.
Madame Giry waved her hand nonchalantly. "He merely welcomes you to his Opera House, and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use, and reminds you that his salary is still due."
I nearly choked on a laugh as the managers' faces went pale, their eyes bulging in their sockets. "His salary!" Firmin sputtered.
"Monsieur Lefevre used to give him twenty thousand francs a month." Giry shrugged.
"Twenty thousand francs?" The managers were beside themselves, and this time I could not stifle a sinister chuckle.
"Perhaps you can afford more, with the vicomte as your patrone." I adored the woman more by the moment.
"Madame, I had hoped to have made that announcement public tonight, when the vicomte was to join us for the gala! But obviously, we shall now have to cancel, as it appears we have lost our star!" Andre objected, ripping my unopened note into shreds as the chorus girls and crew once again burst into noisy chatter about this new scrap of information. I merely rolled my eyes; I knew very little about the boy, but suspected that he was as moronic and hotheaded as the new managers. If so, this would not be a pleasant year for any of them...
Firmin broke out in a cold sweat, placing a trembling hand on his partner's shoulder. "A full house, Andre! We shall have to refund a full house!"
Andre glanced around desperately at the crowd of actors which had gathered around to hear the unsettling conversation. "Su-surely there must be an… an understudy!"
The maestro, Reyer, was beside himself; his face grew more and more purple by the moment, and a vein in his neck began to bulge. "There is no understudy for La Carlotta!" he crowed.
Right on cue, Madame Giry spoke up. "Christine Daaé could sing it, sir." I could have kissed her.
"What, a chorus girl?" Firmin snorted, unimpressed. "Don't be silly." I nearly drew my sword and cut another scene on top of him, but Giry spoke up for me.
"She's been taking lessons from a great teacher."
All eyes turned to Christine, who waited patiently for a decision to be made. She held her chin high over a gracefully arched neck, a faint smile covering up the anxiety that only a trained eye could perceive.
"Really? From who?" Andre demanded.
Christine hesitated. "I do not know his name, Monsieur." It was true. She always referred to me as "Angel," and certainly she couldn't tell this doubtful moron a story like that.
Just in time, Madame Giry saved the day once again, moving to stand behind my pupil and place a hand on her shoulder. "Let her sing for you, Monsieur," she insisted. "She has been well taught." I relaxed the hand that clutched my sword as both managers exchanged glances and shrugged in defeat.
"Alright then," Andre agreed, waving Christine forward. "Come on, then. Don't be shy." Christine glanced hesitantly at Madame Giry, who offered her a terse nod. With a steady, calming breath, my brilliant student stepped forward to take her rightful place center-stage, staring calmly down at the maestro.
"From the beginning of the aria then, Mademoiselle," Reyer instructed, lifting his mustached face to exchange nods with Christine. He sat delicately on the piano bench, his fingers producing the familiar opening chords by memory. I leaned forward a bit, my foot tapping the rhythm of the song habitually on the stone floor, my fingers twitching instinctively at the sound of piano music.
"Sing as you did last night, my angel," I breathed, "and everything will be fine." I almost thought I saw her relax a bit with this whispered encouragement.
Firmin passed a hand over his face, his eyebrows raised skeptically. "Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves," he muttered.
Andre shrugged the comment off, his greedy eyes fixed on Christine. "Well, she's very pretty…" I glared venomously at him for a moment, but tucked the comment away for brooding at a later time. Now it was Christine's moment to shine, after all these years, and I would not and could not interrupt it.
The incessant roar from backstage gradually dulled to hushed whispers and then silence as Christine finally opened her mouth to sing.
Think of me,
Think of me fondly
When we've said goodbye.
Remember me, once in awhile,
Please promise me you'll try!
When you find that once again you long
To take your heart back and be free,
If you ever find a moment,
Spare a thought for me!
She was perfect, better than even I had heard her perform before. She radiated elegance and passion; her eyes shone with joy as music filled her soul. My own eyes flooded with tears of ecstasy and relief in the rafters above her; she had done it.
And the rest, as they say, was history.