A/N: Aaaah! The quickest update since… well, a long time! I felt bad because I left off on a cliffhanger, so I wanted to get this written and posted ASAP. Ready for a good dose of angst? –grins evilly-
Disclaimer: Belongs to Gaston… yada yada yada… but you already know all of this. Andy gets credit for the tune of "Angel of Music," which, by the way, I adore. –happy sigh-
The Setting Sun Inn was entirely abandoned when I arrived at its front door; every one of its employees and temporary visitors had scampered dutifully off to mass like the "good Catholics" they were. The door was locked, but this, of course, presented no problem to me; I slipped through the cellar door, picked my way carefully around the discarded furniture, and climbed up into a little storage closet behind the main lobby. A few of the old, sunken floorboards squeaked under the pressure of my feet, and I made mental notes to avoid that particular footwork when others were sure to notice it.
Although I was quite certain that no one was left in the inn, I opened the closet door warily, squinting against the garish light that poured into the dark space. Indeed, the only inhabitant of the main lobby was a gray tabby cat, sprawled out and purring on the rug in front of the fireplace. Letting out a small sigh of relief, I hurried over to a spot in the middle of the room, which was obscured to passersby by a circular arrangement of plush furniture. Crouched low to the floor, I toddled my way over the hearth, rubbing the cat's head briefly as I passed.
A black leather instrument case was propped up against the stone fireplace. My eyes glinted in triumph as I snatched it up, tucking it under my arm. I waddled past the cat again and she stretched out, her claws extended, purring like a motor. I laughed softly, but my laughter was cut short as a key clicked and rattled in the front door.
I froze, my heart skipping a beat.
My eyes scanned the room frantically for somewhere to hide, and in a flash I had ducked under the nearest couch, the instrument case still clutched securely under my arm.
"Sublime service, didn't you think, Monsieur?" the innkeeper raved, stepping through the threshold.
"Oh yes, splendid," Raoul's voice answered. His tone was distracted… distressed, almost. I found myself smirking despite my current situation.
The innkeeper seemed to sense the vicomte's unease as well. "And…if I might inquire, where did your lovely wife head off to, Monsieur le Vicomte?"
Raoul did not bother to correct him. "Christine went to visit her father's memorial. He's buried on the outskirts of Paris, but Father Gregory put up a cross in his honor in the churchyard."
I nodded. Raoul truly did not know Christine very well if he did not recognize her weekly routine; every Sunday morning, without fail, she went to visit her father's grave after mass. I had expected her to do similarly in her birthplace— lo and behold, I was correct yet again.
Chewing the inside of my lip, my heart began to race. She would arrive at the graveyard at any moment; I simply could not miss this opportunity!
Unfortunately, one tenant after the other filed into the lobby, leaving me no chance to escape unseen. Five minutes went by, then ten…I nearly began to weep bitterly for the ruin of my brilliant plan when suddenly, all footsteps and mindless chatter faded behind a closed door. I held perfectly still, a puzzled frown creasing my brow, waiting for the noise to return. The door did not open again, however, and slowly I lifted the skirt of the couch to peer around the empty room.
No one was in sight. I did not stop to question; I dashed across the room and into the safety of the little closet, clutching the precious instrument case to my breast.
I bolted down the stairs, ignoring the painfully loud groans of the floorboards. Overhead, I heard the distinct clanking of silverware and glasses, and finally understood; the inn's occupants had all gone off to lunch, leaving the main lobby abandoned.
Laughing quietly at my own stupidity, I ducked out of the cellar door and into the frigid air. My lungs rasped in protest at the change in temperature, but I paid them no heed; Christine needed me, needed her Angel of Music! I flew down to the churchyard, and ducked immediately out of sight behind a large mound of compost. The stench was suffocating, and I wondered morbidly if perhaps the mound consisted of more than dirt and leaves…
I shook the thought away, focusing instead on the breathtaking young woman who knelt in the fresh snow before a little cross, her head bowed in prayer. My heart broke, as it always did, at the sight of her tears; in that moment, she was merely ma petite Christine, the little girl who had begged her father for the Angel of Music in the lonely solitude of the opera chapel. Gone were my bitter hatred and resentment, dissolved in her sweet tears. How could I loathe such a pure, innocent creature, suffering and in dire need of my guidance and protection now more than ever?
"Please, Father," she sobbed quietly, her hands clasped under her chin. "Can you hear me? I need you, Papa… I miss you so much." She kissed her fingertips and pressed them to the cross, then doubled over, her delicate form trembling with sobs.
My own chest began to constrict painfully with suppressed tears at the sight. As quietly as I could, I opened the leather case beside me, and lifted from it a magnificent, polished violin and a long, firm bow. Swallowing against the painful lump in my throat, I rested the violin on my shoulder and laid my chin gently on top of it. I paused for a moment, calling my Little Lotte's lullaby to the surface of my mind. Slowly, I laid the bow over the string and drew it softly away from me. I closed my eyes, allowing my mind and fingers to meld with the music. Christine gasped, but I dared not break my concentration and look at her; I fell deeper and deeper within the trance of musi il the tune was, impossibly, one with myself. The very air that Christine and I breathed was The Resurrection of Lazarus. Never before and never again was there a performance like it.
When the last note drifted off on the wind, plunged into the roaring sea, I finally dared to open my eyes. Christine lay curled in a ball in the snow, her eyes glazed and distant. She did not shiver from the cold, but her pale features were tinted slightly with blue. Her breathing was shallow, but constant, and the tiny ghost of a smile parted her lips. My heart ached with the maddening urge to run over to her and envelop her in my embrace, then whisk her off to the safety of the Opera once again. But my mind knew better, and drowned out the former; were I to take Christine hostage, that damned vicomte would know immediately whom to suspect, and would storm the Opera Populaire with swarms of police.
Instead, I took a steadying breath, and began to sing.
Christine, my child,
The snow-kissed beauty,
Rise from your cold vigil.
Fate lends a hand
Obey your master:
Return to your strange angel!
She began to tremble, her eyes shining with unshed tears.
Father, I hear you,
Please don't leave me!
Stay by my side,
Guide me!
Her voice was so small, so helpless, that I began to weep.
"I will never leave you, Christine," I whispered to the wind. But as I opened my mouth to sing the assurances she so longed to hear, the crunch of snow under heavy boots rang out in its stead.
"Christine!" Raoul cried, dropping to his knees beside her. I growled viciously in the back of my throat, my hand flying to the hilt of my sword. The boy caressed her cheek and hair gently, huddled over her. "My God, you're freezing!" He whipped off his cloak and laid it gently over her shaking form. "Come, we have to get you inside—"
"We have to go back, Raoul," she whispered hoarsely, her glassy eyes still focused on some distant, invisible point. I smirked proudly to myself; I had won. She was determined to fulfill my bidding, and there was nothing that arrogant pretty boy could do about it.
"Yes, immediately. Let's get you back to your inn and a nice warm—"
She shook him off of her, her eyes suddenly blazing with a possessed fervor. "To the Opera. I want to go back."
Raoul's brow furrowed in concern. "You're delirious, Christine," he said slowly, as if speaking to a small child. "Come, let's get you out of the cold."
"No!" she shot up, shaking her curly head. "I know exactly what I'm saying. Take me back to the Opera, Raoul, or I'll go by myself."
The vicomte looked utterly perplexed for a moment, staring at Christine as if she had just sprouted tentacles. He opened his mouth to object again, but at Christine's unfaltering glare, offered a shrug and a sigh of defeat. "If you insist, my love. We'll leave on the evening train." His hand moved up slowly to squeeze her shoulder. "But for now, can we please go inside? You'll catch your death out here."
Christine deflated then, as if her spirit had suddenly leapt from her, leaving her an empty, broken shell. "Oh, Raoul," she sobbed, collapsing into the bewildered vicomte and burying her face in his neck. He scooped her into his arms, murmuring to her under his breath, and slowly carried her back to the inn.
I watched their two forms unblinkingly until they disappeared behind the closed inn door.
I had won. Christine heard and obeyed my commands, and she would be back at the Opera Populaire by morning.
I crumpled into the snow, beating my fists into the frozen ground as pained sobs erupted from me. "I won!" I screamed raucously to the biting wind and the thundering sea. Laughing maniacally in between my broken sobs, I cried again, "I won!"
But in the shadowed depths of my heart, I knew it was a lie.
A/N: Angsty enough? Ahh, don't you HATE it when Raoul ruins a perfectly good E/C moment? LOL. Poor guy. Always in the wrong place at the wrong time. –sigh-
Wow, reviews galore! Sorry, I know I'm not allowing much time to review before I post the next chapter; enjoy these quick updates while they last!
Joanieponytail: Ha, you posted the review for chapter 19 about two minutes before I posted chapter 20, so again, I apologize that I couldn't squeeze you into the previous chapter's responses. Thank you! LOL— yeah, now that you mention it, "humongous" IS an after-midnight word. I'll have to go back and change that. I'm glad you liked his reactions to the photographs; he needed a tender moment in between slabs of angst.
Venus725: Shocking and believable— I'm flattered! Haha… I'm actually glad my muse was bugging me too; occasionally she comes up with a decent plot bunny that nibbles at me until I give in. –winks-
Number356: Awww, thanks! –big, happy smile- Well at least I know the cliffhangers are good for keeping the readers coming back for more… -diabolical grin- Hmm, maybe I should do another one… Mwahaha!
Opal Gimstone: AAAAAH! Not poking! –cowers behind Erik- LOL. Yeah, four times, and I'm DYING to go see it again; it's playing at the theater FIVE MINUTES from my house, but my dad's a buttmunch and won't let me go. –pouts- Sorry about the short chappie… I know this one wasn't much longer, but there will be some lengthy ones coming up soon, I promise!
Lady Golodwen: -shakes head- I STILL don't get how you could hate Erik, the poor baby… LOL, but thanks for the super-long reviews! Haha… Yeah, Madame Giry is quite awesome. Ohhh, no homicides in the movie— Raoul and Erik were trying to murder one another, so Noelle and I had to separate them several times, but now they can actually be in the same room together without one trying to strangle the other or twist their arm until they scream "Uncle" and the like. LOL.
LePetiteChristine: -squeals- HILARY! –tackle hug- Oh, I love the screen name, dear. –cackles- That's my girl. –sticks out tongue- Hey, no tormenting me over the reviews! I know where you live! LOL. Did anyone else hear about that? Christine supposedly mouths "I love you" to Raoul before kissing Erik at the end… rumor? No clue, but it's ticking me off. –glowers-
Sakume: Ahhh! I'm sorry! –sobs- OMG, I'd never forget you! –hands over an entire FACTORY full of chocolate chip cookies- I get a dance? Oh wow, I don't deserve it! –kicks self- Gaaah, bad Nade! I promise NEVER EVER to forget you again… -pouts- Sooooorrrryyyyyyy!
Hriviel: OMG, Gustave DOES look like Erik, now that you mention it. He also looks remarkably like Emmy Rossum… male, I mean… lol, go figure. Ahhh, you figured it out— I'll still include "Wandering Child," of course, but this was just kind of my own little nod to Gaston because he deserves it. SO GLAD you caught the reference of Christine's blond mother… didn't know if anyone would get that. Anywho, I needed something for Erik to do for those "three months" that would keep the readers interested… one can only do so much of brooding over the rooftop ordeal and composing DJT before the readers snooze off. ;)
Strange Girl: You're back! –hugs- OOOH! –catches cookies and chomps contentedly on them- LOL, aww, I'm sorry. They really WERE two entirely different scenes, albeit short ones, and to combine them would have been somewhat awkward. I'm trying very hard to keep things interesting; you all know the story— I'm just attempting to keep it new and "fresh" with little twists here and there. Glad it's making sense… I write spontaneously, and don't know what's going to happen until my fingers type it, so if all the ends meet, I'll be pleasantly surprised and thrilled. –crosses fingers- So far, so good!