Way hey! Reviews already! Mishka does the happy dance Thanks a lot to all my readers.
Okay, the more I think about this, the less I want to write fluff. But if people want fluff, let me know.
Anyhoo, another chapter. Here we go…
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White hot embers spiralled downwards as the mod ransacked the Opera Ghost's lair. One small figure watched with a mixture of relish and sympathy as two stagehands tore down a crimson velvet hanging, casting it into the dirt. They scuffed at it with their boots, and one of them spat on it. The watcher spun away, backing into the lake to take it all in. pure carnage had erupted. A few police officers were trying to quell the anarchy, but the men and women of the Opera had waited years for their revenge. Christine Daae had finally given them a window to it.
It had seemed like such a good idea at the time. She had joined the throng, taking up a length of wood from the carpentry as her weapon. But now, she felt sort of hollow. Christine was not here, and all these fine things were being destroyed.
"What if he's killed her?" she wondered aloud. She saw Meg Giry emerge from one of the many hidden alcoves, down the stone staircase, and gasped at the white porcelain mask she held between trembling fingers.
Suddenly, a young, ginger moustached policeman sloshed into the lair from one of the adjoining catacombs, crying;
"We have them! Mademoiselle Daae and the Vicomte, we have them outside! They are safe!" A sort of ram shackled cheer worked its way around the mob, and a Constable raised his arm, clutching a pistol.
"Enough! We shall leave this place now, before it burns to the ground! The brute is most likely dead, if the Mademoiselle is free!"
Fearful of the consequences if they defied him, the people began to disperse, being ushered into the tunnel towards the safety of outside. The observing girl began to join them, but then paused. It just didn't seem right.
She pushed her way back down the passage, discarding her weapon, and waded her way into the lair once more, feeling faintly sick at the site of the damage. She was a person who prided herself on being able to appreciate beauty, and this place was surely drenched with it once. Perhaps she could salvage some of it.
She set to work, righting the felled candelabras, rolling up the fabrics that had been torn to the ground, trying to ignore the absurdity of what she was doing. She noticed that the embers had turned to ash, and was just wiping a few grey curls off a dresser littered with mementos, when she noticed a pile of drawings. Picking them up, she flicked through them. Christine Daae smiling, Christine weeping, Christine weeping, Christine dancing, Christine sleeping, Christine, Christine, Christine…
"Salope!"
The mutter was all the warning she had before she was seized by the hair and slammed against the wall.
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So, what do we think? Hope this is pretty cliffhangery. I like cliffhangers…
Salope is bitch in French, BTW