The costume vault was an amazing place. In this place Erik had made himself a king, a pauper, a soldier, a god, and a gentleman. This last look suited him so well that he had adopted it permanently. The fine black material let him feel at home in a place that catered to the well to do. The stylish derby hat hid his colorless, wispy strands of hair, and pulled low over his mask. Whoever said fashion was useless was a fool.
Now, he examined rack after rack of women's costumes, searching for something that would compliment Christine's delicate coloring, deep blue eyes, her hourglass frame. An emerald toned satin dress caught his eye. It appeared to be about the right size, and the empire waistline and scooped neck would compliment her figure nicely. Next, he picked the lock on the jewelry cabinets. Margeurite needed her casket of jewels. He chose bracelets, a necklace, and then a net of pearls and crystals to drape over her hair.
With this treasure trove draped over his arm and filling his pockets, he next visited the servants' quarters where they would be cutting flowers for the evening dinner table. A distracting commotion outside the door drew the flower arrangers away from their work just long enough for him to glean a pretty bouquet, and one scarlet rose.
Christine would be out with Meg now, helping Meg and her mother set the dinner tables. He smiled dreamily to himself as he imagined Christine as the 'demure, chaste, and pure" Margeurite. She would be beautiful.
Meg watched Christine toying with her food yet again. Her friend had been strangely distant and even more reflective than usual recently. As they set up the dining room, she had said hardly a word. Meg touched Christine's hand to bring her back from the depths of her chicken linguini.
"Why, hello there! So glad you decided to join me for dinner. How was your journey?" Meg was smiling, but her expression clearly demanded an explanation.
"Meg, I want to tell you something, but if I do you have to promise to keep it absolutely secret from everyone." Urgency lent a tightness to Christine's voice that sounded alien to Meg.
"Do I need to swear on my feet again? Of course I promise. I've always kept your secrets." Meg was sincere. She couldn't imagine what sort of secret the bookish Christine might be keeping.
"All right. I have met my Angel. In the flesh." She stopped to consider Meg's appropriately stunned stare. "And it turns out that he is none other than…"
"Who, Christine?"
"Meg, if you squeal, or scream, I'll die on the spot."
Meg shook her head and put her hand over her mouth to let her skittish friend know that she wouldn't say a word.
"He is the Phantom of the Opera. The Opera Ghost. He was in my room earlier today, and I am to meet with him after dinner to practice my audition piece."
Meg's hand tightened over her mouth to stop the shriek that wanted to come. Her eyes widened until the entire white was visible. Christine being under the sway of the dreaded Phantom explained so much: the early nights, the long hours of practice, the bookishness, everything.
"Aren't you afraid of him?" Meg had long admired Christine's bravery in auditioning against Carlotta, in rejecting the fashions and frenetic lifestyle of the other Opera girls, but this was too much bravery.
"When I first found out who he was, I was very frightened, but then I was too angry to be frightened. But he was so gentle, and then he played for me such beautiful music to make me sing. He is very much the gentleman, as he has always been. And he really is an excellent teacher." Christine sounded as though she was pleading with Meg to believe her.
"Have you seen his face? They say he has no face, only a mask, and behind the mask is only darkness."
Christine's light laughter chimed across the refectory as she stood to leave. "No, Meg. I think he is as human as you or me. Maybe he is a fugitive who can't be recognized. Maybe he's a nobleman who has an eccentricity about the Opera. But I saw his hands, and they are flesh. I have to go to my lesson now."
Buoyed by her notion of the Ghost as an eccentric nobleman or an outlaw artist, Christine fairly skipped back to her apartment, shaking her curls loose of the tight braid and teasing them out with her fingers. When she walked in, she immediately saw the emerald dress draped over the leather chair. It shimmered softly in the light of a fire someone had stoked in the fireplace. More startling was the collection of sparkling jewels heaped on the end-table beside the chair. An envelope with her name in an ornate script leaned against a sapphire necklace. She opened it and read,
Dear Christine,
Please perform your toilette and call for me. Try not to look in the mirror until you have finished with your preparations, and I have joined you. Indulge me in this, and I believe we will have our Margeurite.
Your Servant In All Things,
Erik.
Christine retired to her bedroom, laced herself into the dress and donned the jewelry. Her hair entwined with the strands of the netting, neatly holding it back from her face, but allowing it to tumble down her back in cascades of curls glistening with crystal and pearls. The dress itself was far more revealing than any Christine had ever worn. It was in keeping with the Opera, though, and so she found no real grounds for objection. She wondered how Erik had known her favorite color. He knows so much about me, she thought, and I know nothing of him.
She returned to the parlor, avoiding the mirror, and softly called his name. Eric entered the mirror chamber and touched the lever. When he saw what awaited him outside the glass, he again experienced the peculiar sensation that his strength had drained out through his legs. His chest constricted with a yearning ache that cut off his breath. Had he thought of her as pretty? Sacrilege. She was beautiful. A spirit, body and voice all designed to make angels weep with jealousy. If only I were half so blessed, I would try to make her see…
Christine laughed nervously. He had been standing motionless on the threshold between the mirror and her room for several minutes. "Angel? Will you come in and close the mirror? I haven't seen yet, and the way you are staring makes me wonder if I haven't missed some aspect of dress."
In a dream, he stepped out and closed the mirror behind him. In a whisper so low she had to strain to hear, he said, "Elle rit de se voir si belle en ce miroir…" and stepped aside.
Christine blinked, gasped, and began to laugh. "I'm…this is…I'm…" she turned to Erik, who was beginning to think she was laughing at his choice. So quickly he could not react to pull back, she had grasped his hands tightly in hers. "I'm beautiful…Angel, I am Margeurite!" She burst into song, feeling the flow of emotion through her, this time a giddy happiness.
Erik barely heard. His gaze was locked on those little, pale hands gripping his. Leslie had touched his hand in pity when he was broken and suffering so many years ago; he had forgotten what a friendly touch felt like. To have this beautiful nightingale clasp his hands in friendship and excitement was exhilarating, magical. With effort, he tore his eyes away from the spectacle of their clasped hands only to meet her sparkling eyes, which put the jewelry she wore to shame. He was about to speak, when a loud knock sounded at the door.
Christine dropped his hands and turned, calling "Who is it?"
Erik quickly touched the lever and was concealed in the mirror chamber before she could get to the door. Christine cracked the door open, to find the younger deChagny standing outside with a small bouquet of pinks and baby's breath. The door continued to swing open, and the young man outside stared at the room's exquisite occupant with amazement. After a moment, he remembered who and where he was and closed his mouth.
