A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews and continued interest! :) And now, a nice long chapter…
IV
At the sudden presence of another being, when she assumed herself alone in the foyer, Christine clapped her hand to her chest in shock, then rolled her eyes a little heavenward, upon seeing who it was.
"Heavens, Raoul, you startled me."
"It wasn't intentional. Though pardon me for saying so, but you have been rather skittish lately."
Christine scoffed. "Is it any wonder, what with the dark tales you and our uncle continually ply me with?"
"Those are not tales which prove true. We only wish to keep you informed. Speaking of which…"
Blast! Why had she introduced the detestable topic when she made a point of avoiding it all week?
"Have you given further thought to –?"
"No, Raoul, no." She broke into his sentence. "Let us not speak of anything that doesn't involve dancing or wine or music."
He sighed. "Very well, Christine. Tonight we shall concentrate on the ball alone. Uncle has asked that I come to collect you. The guests have already arrived. With that in mind…" He handed her a small booklet with a satin cord attached. "Your dance card, my dear."
My what?"
"Have you never been to a ball?" he asked with a surprised lift of his brow. "I would have thought, with you coming from training in the dance…"
"Yes, of course. Each New Year the Opera House holds one, usually a masquerade. This year, it was my first and only social gala to attend."
He took hold of her left wrist and began to tie the strange little booklet around the glove. "And did you not dance?"
"Of course."
"And how were the arrangements made?"
She stared at him in confusion and shook her head. "What exactly are you asking?"
"How did your gentleman partners make their introductions known?"
He finished the knot and she lifted her arm to look at the dangling booklet. It seemed rather awkward.
"It was a masked ball. They certainly didn't give names. Why is there also a stub of a pencil attached?"
"For your partners to enter their names in the booklet, so as to dance with you."
"You're making sport of me again, aren't you?" She regarded him with narrowed eyes. "I told you I'm not the gullible child I once was." He had even taken eggs from the hens' nests and arranged them on the ground, to convince her eggs rained down from the sky, horrid prankster that he'd been.
Her former playmate had the audacity to grin. "And I told you, I'm beyond the days of boyhood pranks. If you look inside the ballroom, you will see other ladies with the same booklets attached to their wrists."
Christine realized he was serious. "But why must it be accomplished in such a way? It seems so silly."
"It is rather outmoded. The balls I attended this spring did not play out in this fashion. I would venture a guess that our uncle has precise plans who shall dance with you. He instructed me to tell you to leave three lines blank. And I would ask that you include me for a dance as well."
"Of course," she said distantly, frowning at the thought of being spun around the dance floor by her uncle's choice of potential bridegrooms. She had planned to hide away in a forgotten corner somewhere after the compulsory introductions through which she must suffer.
Glaring at the despised little book, Christine had an idea. She plucked at the string Raoul had gallantly tied until it came loose.
"What are you doing?" he asked in confusion. "Is it too tight?"
"No, but this scheme of our uncle's makes it feel as if the walls are closing in on me…" Taking the stub of a pencil, she filled in all but four lines with phony names of characters from past operas. "There. At least I shall have some control over my evening."
He laughed. "Brava, Christine. I see you haven't lost that spark of spontaneity that always made you stand out among others."
Uncertain whether to be insulted or pleased, she watched as he filled his name onto the last blank space available, above a set of fictitious partners.
"Mine will be the last true dance, and hopefully the one that lingers in your memory."
There was something unsettling about the steady look in his blue eyes, the soft words themselves, and she quickly changed the direction of their conversation.
"I hope that isn't a warning that you will stomp on my feet, because as I seem to recall you have two left ones and were quite clumsy as a boy."
He regarded her in mild affront. "I'll have you know that I received high acclaim from my teacher, Madame Julliard, in my instruction on ballroom dancing."
"Hmm. We shall soon see…"
"Indeed we shall."
But first to follow through with her great uncle's plan of her introduction to the community – by showing off Christine's talent, in the hope of gaining interest from the wealthy eligible men of the surrounding districts.
Finding little to smile about, Christine entered the grand ballroom with Raoul, noting the earl motion for her to join him. The huge chamber was sparse by way of décor – her uncle had not opened his purse strings too wide for anything but necessities in the austere room. But at least he had not skimped on lighting - the entire chamber was abundant with tiny flames – from above, in the chandelier, and below in the brass sconces along the walls, as well as the myriad candelabrum that had been set on narrow tables against one side of the room. Two types of wine, sour punch, and sweetmeats were available, though Christine doubted her roiling stomach could manage any trifle offered.
She loved to sing, there was something fulfilling about opening her mouth and hearing the crystalline tones that came forth in such sweet melody. She wasn't vain or prideful, not really. She only thought what everyone else made a point to tell her. But as she stood at one end of the room with the musicians behind, and waited the brief interval for the earl's pithy introduction, Christine dreaded this moment that had swept upon her.
She feared her antagonism with the proceedings came out in her performance of a segment from a light operetta, though she managed to keep a smile attached to her face – a stringent rule taught her from the beginning of her training as a little ballet rat. As she sang, men continued to move about the room, approaching ladies, with the hope to add their names to the little booklets.
Judging from the faces alight with interest and the round of applause that followed her song, Christine's entrance into the small society of Berwickshire was a success. The crowd not as big or as grand as a Parisian audience, perhaps fifty in attendance, with nowhere near as many notable guests that filled the theater each night of the performances. Why, the emperor of France even had an exclusive royal box, when he and his entourage chose to visit! But she had never been required to meet any of them face to face and preferred it that way. Those of high standing in this community, to whom Christine would individually be introduced throughout the evening, was enough to make her head spin.
Once the completion of dance cards was accomplished – her great uncle commandeering Christine's booklet and filling lines she'd left blank with names, the musicians began the first of many waltzes to follow. The ball commenced, and Christine was presented to and claimed by the first of her uncle's choices – a young baron from a neighboring district. Tall, thin and stodgy, he barely looked at her as they woodenly danced, then stiffly he bowed once the song came to a close, and left.
His disinterest cheered her. Perhaps the evening wouldn't be so tiresome if it progressed this well. If no one showed any marked interest, the earl might give up his greedy scheme and send Christine back to Paris in his own carriage on the morrow.
The next two dances were to be claimed by M. Melot and M. Rodrigo, her fictional characters from two operas. She darted out of her great uncle's sight and took the time to refresh herself with a glass of wine and linger in the shadowed recess of an alcove. The fourth dance was then claimed by the second of her uncle's choices – Lord Lomax, a viscount with a little more meat on his bones than the last unwanted partner, but old enough to be her grandfather. At least he was pleasant with his words, though Christine prickled all over from his bold stare, similar to the lewd ones of the stagehands at the opera house. He couldn't seem to lift his eyes above the level of her bosom for long, and his hands had a tendency to stray. After the dance at last concluded, he lingered by her side like an irksome gnat. Twice she had to reprimand him – politely of course – with a gentle, cautionary word or a soft knock to his knuckles with her fan.
His attention was thankfully required elsewhere as a small group of gentlemen converged upon them, the subject veering to local news, and she took the first available moment to melt away from their circle.
She'd had enough of hearing about the attack of nocturnal beasts on the victimized citizens, and certainly had no desire to encounter either her great uncle or again fend off the attentions of Lord Lomax. A brief escape was in order. Her next several dances were filled with fabricated names, until the third unknown candidate for bridegroom appeared, then Raoul would have the last dance of actual flesh and blood men, the remainder allotted to her fictitious cast.
Knowing her presence wouldn't be required for some time, Christine slipped out to the terrace that lay wreathed in cooling shadow. She fanned her face briskly and inhaled a deep calming breath, then grew very still. A strange awareness tingled through her blood and made her heart beat a little faster, though a hasty glance around the wide enclosure assured her that she stood alone.
Ahead lay a garden of meticulously cut and patterned boxwood. A maze lay spread out before her – small but elaborate, perhaps half the size of the manor – and she thought how marvelous it would be to lose oneself within the verdant hedges until the ball's conclusion. Impossible, of course, if she did not wish to incur her uncle's wrath. Still, a momentary respite wasn't out of the question, and she had a little free time to wander the grounds, thanks to her clever manipulation of the silly dance booklet.
With a wary glance over her shoulder to the brightly lit ballroom, Christine hastened down the shadowed steps and toward the shielding labyrinth. She had planned to visit it by day, but never got the chance, always sidetracked somehow.
To her surprise, the walls within were composed of ivy-covered stone, the surrounding hedge by which she entered acting as a gateway. The walls of gray rock were old, soft and crumbling on the surface in places, much older than her uncle. So clearly he wasn't the one who ordered the maze's design, which made sense with his miserly nature. The brackets that held the torches were thick with rust though the torches themselves looked new. She guessed the stone maze must be centuries old, and she wondered who built it and why.
The path soon forked, a torch bracketed to a wall at each end giving light by which to see, an order of the earl's for the visiting guests, she presumed, since usually the maze stood dark each night. Feeling as if she had walked several hundred years into the past, she devised a story in her head of a maiden fleeing the castle under siege and hiding herself within the labyrinth, hoping her prince would come and find her.
Christine suppressed a giggle at her girlish foolishness and turned to the right, following a path that took her to the left, the fingers of one hand trailing the walls as she walked its narrow pathways, entranced in her magical, mythical kingdom. Another short walk took her a second time to the left, and soon the path branched off three ways. Instead of walking the long distance forward or left again, she turned right. The air was brisk but not frigidly cold, the night clear and the short grassy paths lit in a golden haze by the intermittent torches.
Despite her careful accounting of direction, Christine soon found herself adrift in the maze, uncertain of the way back to familiar turf.
x
"Oh, botheration."
She looked at the sky, wishing she could tell the way to go from what few stars were not covered by clouds. East, west, north, south – in this never-ending warren of walls it felt all jumbled up. Save for the fact that the moon now flickered in clouds to her right – where it had been when she first entered the maze. So it stood to reason, if she walked the opposite way, she would be walking toward the manor.
Like two children from a dark fairytale read to her as a child, she should have brought crumbs from the sweetmeats to find her way – though this was no forest, only a maze. And certainly not so big! At least there was no fog…
After coming to her third dead end, Christine whirled around to retrace her steps and try another path. She walked only a short distance, when the torch ahead flickered erratically, though there was no strong wind to disturb a flame so large – and surely the layout of stone walls should prevent such an occurrence.
Christine watched in confusion, her eyes going wide with shock when the fire blew out, casting her into a patch of darkness. Torchlight in the distance ahead made it possible to still see. Nonetheless she decided to change course, now leery of traveling down that path.
She turned to find her way blocked by the tall dark figure of a man.
Letting out a soft cry, she clasped her throat in alarm, then saw the glimpse of a mask where the distant light hit ebony against the bridge of his nose.
"You," she breathed, feeling lightheaded. She grabbed at the wall beside her for balance.
All week she had wondered if her man of mystery would attend the ball, since all those of merit were invited. When he made no appearance – with the ball more than halfway concluded – she supposed he had declined. To confront him so unexpectedly was disconcerting, to say the least.
"You gave me a fright," she accused. How had he moved so silently? She had not even heard the whisper of a blade of grass or the crunch of a pebble.
"My apologies. I seem to have mastered that skill."
Not understanding the sarcasm of his words, she pulled her hand away from the wall. To her consternation the dance booklet snagged in the twigs of dense ivy, and she snapped her wrist back with impatience. The wretched little book broke from its slender tie, fluttering to the ground between them.
Before she could retrieve it, he bent and held the booklet between his long fingers and thumb. Again he wore snug leather gloves that were black, like his mask.
She held her hand out, but he ignored her silent request.
"Monsieur, if you please…"
He straightened to stand. "Again, I find you wandering lost in the darkness. You do not heed well to warning."
"I am only taking a stroll in the night air," Christine said, slightly perturbed by his choice of words. She wasn't lost – not in the true sense of the word – she would have found her way back, eventually. And he had no right to treat her like a disobedient child.
"Alone?"
"I prefer the solitude." She realized she was being rude, but couldn't seem to help herself. "I have no wish to keep you, monsieur. I can find my way."
"Based on previous experience, I highly doubt that."
She bristled at his low words. "And if I should allow you to escort me back to the ball – once you have seen to the task – will you again disappear like some phantom in the night?"
He chuckled at her accusing words, though there was little amusement to the sound.
"If I should say no, do I have your consent?"
The words were stiffly polite, but did not fit. They sought permission, but he was clearly the one in charge. He did not seem the type to seek approval from anyone. She then recalled how at their last meeting his mouth and hands had so boldly touched her, how she had allowed him to touch her, and her face warmed uncomfortably.
Despite their dim surroundings, his eyes strangely glowed, piercing golden orbs amidst the darkness of his mask… his mask.
"Why do you always wear a mask over your face?" she blurted without thinking.
The orbs narrowed to amber slits, but he gave no reply.
"Tonight's ball is no masquerade," she added nervously, now wishing she had held her tongue. "The guests are not in costume."
To her surprise, he opened the tiny booklet and scanned its pages, despite that they had next to nothing by way of light.
"M. Valentin…M. Faust…" His eyes flicked up to hers. "With dance partners such as these, it is no wonder that you fled to become lost in the maze."
She drew her brows together in chagrin. "I did not flee. You make me sound both foolish and helpless…"
He stepped closer, taking hold of her wrist, and she looked up at him in shock.
"And is this where I, as Mephistopheles, guide you away from the prison into which you have found yourself?"
She winced at his clear knowledge of Gounod's opera and his discovery of her little deception.
"So you call yourself a devil, monsieur? Is that supposed to reassure me to follow you through this maze?" She cleared her throat, resolved to cling to what speck of dignity remained. "I think, after recalling the liberties you took when last we met, I would be wise to turn my back on your offer of help and implore God in His heaven to save me."
Her masked invader chuckled lightly and slipped the booklet in her hand, giving a crisp bow. "If that is your wish, pray continue. However, be advised: while you do have a lovely voice, you are not fit to play the role of Marguerite."
All nervousness vanished at the outrage of his words, like a dousing of cold water. Her eyes grew wide and her mouth went slack in stunned offense. He whirled away, his cloak swishing with finality against her skirts and the walls of the narrow path.
Never, never had she had anyone say anything derogatory about her singing when before an audience.
"You judge yourself worthy to be a critic of the opera, monsieur?"
He did not respond, and she hurried after him, catching up to his swift stride.
"Tell me – by what right do you speak to me of such things?"
"I have studied music and its composers for many years." He delivered the answer without looking at her over his shoulder.
"That may well be. But I was trained in the theater since the age of seven, and by acclaimed instructors of the chorus."
"To sing?" he scoffed. "Clearly your teachers were deficient at their tasks."
She frowned. "And just what exactly is wrong with my voice?"
"Where shall I begin?"
She blinked at his dry rejoinder. "What? I…How can you say such a thing!" She spluttered the words and glared at his broad back. "While it's true I may be no prima donna, I've been told by many admirers that I have a delightful voice, comparable to angels."
"Did I not say it was lovely in tone?" He spared her the briefest of disinterested glances.
"Then what is the problem?"
"In all honesty?"
"Of course."
"You do not round your vowels properly. Your carriage is preposterous for holding a note longer than a few paltry seconds. The lack of appropriate emotion you display is a deterrent to a satisfactory performance…"
And so it went. Christine blinked, her mouth working but no sound coming forth as he carelessly ticked off her flaws one by one. She was so addled by his criticisms that she did not realize they had left the strange labyrinth until she was suddenly aware that the music from the ballroom had grown louder.
"Delivered, with all expedience …" His words came tight and mocking, his lips twisting in the facsimile of a smile as he turned to her and swept his hand toward the manor in a graceful flourish. "... and safety. It seems even a devil can keep his promise."
She averted her eyes to the manor.
"You're upset," he guessed.
"Should I not be?" She did not fool herself that she was ready to step outside the chorus, perhaps never would excel beyond anything more than a living, dancing prop. And certainly she had not given her best performance for her uncle's guests. But to have it pointed out to her in such demeaning detail rattled everything she had previously believed of herself – more so, that she recognized some truth to his words, which conversely added salt to her wounded pride.
"I would have thought as an entertainer you are accustomed to criticism. You did ask for my honest opinion. Yet it was not my intent to cause offense. That I did is to my deep regret." He inclined his head in farewell. "I will leave you to your ball."
"No – wait!" she said as he turned away.
Christine suddenly felt small and petty. She had asked for his honesty. Nor did she fail to note that his disparaging manipulations had led her trailing after him from the maze without her awareness. In truth, she supposed she had been lost and felt foolish for her behavior, wishing to extend some form of olive branch.
"Are you not coming inside?"
"I think it unwise."
She shook her head. "Surely you were invited? I thought all who live in the vicinity and outside its borders were invited…" When he gave no answer, she insisted, "Then I will invite you."
He gave no response, and she looked at his unyielding back in hurt confusion.
"So instead you will once again disappear into the mist, like some phantom in the night – and without even telling me your name?"
The thought that he might leave unsettled her more than their previous conversation did.
"I never have cared for social activities," he quietly admitted.
"Yet you are here. You did come to the ball."
"A rash decision."
"You don't strike me as a man who acts impulsively."
He turned then to look at her.
"An odd statement, when you consider how we met."
"No, not really." She looked into his eyes intently. "Even then, it seemed somehow…planned."
xXx
Erik curiously studied the young woman who spoke as if she knew him. Had that been true, she would not be standing there, regarding him so calmly. Exquisite in a flounced silk ball gown that shimmered like lavender moonlight, with her ringlets of hair swept up in a becoming style to fall over one shoulder, Christine reminded him of an angelic caste of nighttime goddess. Her inquisitive eyes sparkled like the brightest of stars in a midnight sky, while her flawless face glowed with a sweet innocence almost painful to behold.
He should not be here, in her presence, a demon consorting with an angel.
What meager conscience he could yet claim urged him to leave, but the darker side of his nature persisted, making him wish to linger in her company a little while longer, to converse and know her better…
A predilection with which he was not at all familiar.
"Christine – are you out here?"
Confound that blasted boy's interruption, the third time the Vicomte had disturbed their meeting! Had he nothing better to do than to trot after Christine like an abandoned puppy?
"Faust and his associates are seeking to claim you," he said grimly. "I should go."
"Oh, but I … would rather you stay."
Erik spun on his heel and strode away before she could finish her reply, though his acute hearing picked up her last whispered words. Words she did not mean for him to hear...
He continued his steady pace.
Curiosity and the desire to see her had impelled him to take the little-used path through the forest and attend this arcane gathering, though he had not associated with a crowd of this volume for many years. Decades, in fact. Coming tonight had been an error in judgment, to approach her so unobtrusively, as a man to a woman. He was no normal man, a wretched fact that presented continual reminders.
Yet no matter his determination to leave, some unnatural force beyond his control, some intrinsic need to be with her, had him halt and look over his shoulder before he could slip into his protective well of darkness.
When first he glimpsed her from where he stood on the shadowed terrace and heard her sing, Erik had held back from the revelry, hidden. He had watched her being whirled about by two inferior mortals, his shrewd eyes following her over the dance floor and noting her distress she worked hard to conceal. Later he observed her escape and hesitation, within feet of where he stood. The subtle fragrance of rosewater lured him with her sweetness, and he had followed her into the maze, to make his presence known and carry through with his plan at last.
The moment ideal, the temptation to make her his, to take all of what he desired had pressed him unmercifully. But one long look into her candid dark eyes and he had known – a third attempt to compel her into submission was not how he wanted Christine.
More than half a century had passed since he had fully taken a woman or felt the desire to do so. For blood and for pleasure, he had taken his fill, and afterward compelled her to forget. He had dispensed with the empty practice, wearying of the need to compel a woman to bed him – the satisfaction it brought merely fleeting and never whole. He wanted a woman to accept him for what he was without the need to put her under his spell – an impossibility, of course, since he himself wasn't whole. Within and without, he would always remain a scarred and twisted individual: in more ways than one, a true monster. The bitter knowledge that he would never find love or acceptance led him to bar himself within walls of solitude long ago – until the night of Samhain, when he met an Angel in distress, and found he could no longer remain distant.
This strange unrest in the center of his being he had never before felt. His startling encounters with Christine yielded unique results, far different from anything experienced in his dark span of years on the earth. Meetings to be coveted. This woman, to be prized. She spoke to him as she would to any man, absent of mystical coercion, and had wanted him near by her own choice, even inviting him to the ball, thinking he lacked an invitation…
She had reached the terrace, once more at the side of the intrusive boy. As if she felt Erik's stare, she too stopped and looked over her shoulder.
It was impossible for Christine to see him from so great a distance in such darkness, but owing to his traits as a creature of the night, just as his hearing was keen, his eyes were sharper than any mortal's. He could see her uncertainty and the curiosity that remained in her eyes, before the boy urged her forward and the pair disappeared into the ballroom.
And still he hesitated.
He had withheld his name from her for no particular reason, taking mild enjoyment from the game. After eternal years, the need to invent light, meaningless diversions helped to break the monotony.
Of course, she had asked about his mask. Everyone did, or if they did not dare utter the words, they stared with blunt rudeness that their drawing room manners forbade. The hypocrisy disgusted him. He had endured lifetimes to achieve the ability to overcome mankind's adverse reactions to his appearance and control his vulnerability, pain, and rage. Though the ill-favored who inadvertently saw beyond the molded casing never lived to tell the tale, few that their number were.
She had been curious, but not insistent on knowing. She had been vexed with him, but did not fear his presence. And tonight he had glimpsed within her searching soul the same indefinable need that had brought him to seek her out. Despite the ramifications it would surely entail, Erik made a decision and took the path leading up to the manor and the woman inside.
Christine was different…
And he must know why.
xXx
The moment Raoul left her side to get her a glass of punch, Christine felt herself harshly grabbed above the elbow. She turned in shock, attempting to snatch her arm away.
The earl glared at her. "Where have you been?"
"Outside for some air – it's quite stifling in here."
"Lord Bisby has been seeking you out to claim his dance." He applied pressure with his fingers, and Christine winced, certain bruises would form beneath the glove. "It will not bode well if you offend our guests by shirking your duty to them…Ah, Lord Bisby!" His tone and expression instantly dripped honey as a man with a slight paunch and greying dark hair walked up beside them. "I have found my grandniece. She hopes that you can forgive her oversight and accept this next dance as yours."
Christine bristled but said nothing, apparently not trusted to speak for herself. She managed a false smile toward the noble who eyed her with pompous arrogance.
"Yes, well, perhaps this once." His hand moved to the middle of her spine, and she forced herself not to fidget away from his touch as he led her to the dance floor. His eyes were blue, like ice, and froze shards through her.
He made no attempt at conversation, clearly still provoked by her earlier absence. When the dance at last concluded, he escorted her back to the fringes and stiffly bowed. Before she could collect a breath, Raoul took her hand and spun her toward the floor.
"I trust you won't mind if I claim the dance of one of your pretenders, since my own was seized by the temperamental lord."
Christine giggled, her cousin's light repartee coupled with the welcome knowledge that the ball would soon end putting her at ease for the first time that evening.
Raoul led her into a breezy waltz, while her mind faithlessly returned to the mysterious man she had left behind near the maze…
x
They had barely begun to dance, when the candles all around flickered as if by a sudden soft wind. A stir filtered through the crowd, slowly, then with more momentum, several of the dancing couples slowing their steps or ceasing with them altogether to look toward the terrace doors on the north wall. Ladies whispered to their companions, their expressions full of question and shock, while the gentlemen stood, anxious and at a loss, as if uncertain what to do.
"What is happening?" Christine directed the low words to Raoul as she observed the gawking guests, then noticed her cousin's own frozen expression. She moved her hand from his shoulder to turn and see what caused the quiet commotion.
The sight of the newcomer who stood just inside the terrace doors made Christine gape in stunned amazement. The night had been dark and far too stingy in revealing details, the candlelight again struggling to steady itself and redeem the oversight.
Dressed in elegant black, it was the predominant color of his evening attire, save for the crimson-threaded waistcoat and dark purple lining of his black cloak. Standing taller than most, his stance was that of a visiting king, regal, with an air of masculine grace that robbed Christine of steady breath. His dark hair was pulled back in a queue, as it had been the first time they met, bringing into prominence his strong shadowed jaw. But it was the mask he wore – black with dark red embroidery, to match his silk waistcoat – that proved the identity of the late arrival and encouraged Christine she would soon learn the name of her frequent savior.
For whatever reason, he had changed his mind, and Christine felt exceedingly glad. It was then she realized that his eyes of hypnotic gold looked directly at her, and once more she felt drawn by their beauty.
The musicians brought the song to a close, though it failed to matter since most of the couples had long since stopped dancing.
"Christine?" Raoul's low voice held a hint of impatience, as did his tug on her wrist, but she could not look away from her familiar stranger. Afraid if she did, he might vanish into thin air.
"Who is that?" she whispered to Raoul.
Before he could reply, she watched her great uncle approach their newly arrived guest.
"Count cel Tradat, I presume," her uncle said, somewhat nervously. "I am Lord Beaumont, the Earl of Montmarte. I bid you welcome."
At the coveted revelation of the stranger's name, faint gasps of shock were heard all around the room.
"So, that is the reclusive Count!" a woman whispered directly behind Christine. "Mother said he never leaves his castle. Not in the two years since he took up residence there from some far-distant land."
"Why ever not?" a second voice whispered.
"Have you no eyes in your head? The mask. It's rumored he hides a devil's face."
"Oh pish. The man is as beautiful as an angel," another woman murmured. "Why, look how his eyes seem to glow!"
"Hush, Eliza. I want to hear what he has to say."
So did Christine, and slowly she began to walk past the huddles of couples, forgetting her own dance partner. Raoul again grabbed her wrist.
"Christine - where are you going?"
She blinked, barely taking her eyes off the striking Count to address Raoul. "Uncle will wish for me to present myself," she quietly explained, for once thankful of the fact.
Raoul did not further detain her, though he did walk with her. The earl looked their way with a germ of approval.
"Ah, my grandnephew and grandniece. My Lord, Count cel Tradat, may I present to you the Viscount Raoul de Chagny and Miss Christine Daaé , recently arrived from France."
The Count barely acknowledged the introduction with an absent nod, his eyes never leaving Christine.
"Miss Daaé …" He took the hand she was barely aware she held up to him, his gloved fingers curling beneath hers. A spark ignited with their touch, like a flint had been struck. He bowed low with masculine grace, though did not press his lips to her glove, as had other men, and she found herself missing the token greeting. "It is a pleasure."
Christine slightly curtsied. "I am delighted to meet you at last, Count cel Tradat," she replied lightly, with a triumphant emphasis on his name, and detected a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
She failed to notice Raoul's frown and narrow-eyed inspection of the Count. Nor did she see her great uncle's shrewd expression as he watched the introduction.
The earl nodded in signal to a servant, who hurried forward, hands uplifted to take the Count's cloak. "If I may, sir..." Their masked guest delivered a stern look toward the footman and barely shook his head. He fell back in some confusion.
"I cannot stay," the Count explained with a succinct politeness that seemed forced. "I thought only to come and make my felicitations."
"Surely now that you are here, you will stay for some refreshment?" her great uncle persuaded. "Or, if you prefer, my grandniece has the next dance available and would be most happy to share it with you."
Raoul opened his mouth to object, but was quelled by a look from their uncle. The Count must be wealthy indeed for the earl to pander so avidly to his comforts. Christine should be horrified and angered by his embarrassing manipulations, but could only feel a breathless anticipation for the Count to accept.
"I tend not to participate in these amusements…"
Christine's eyes flicked up to his, unable to hide her disappointment. He held her gaze for an anxious breath.
"But tonight I will make the exception."
The musicians struck up their instruments in a slow waltz, and the Count offered his hand to Christine. She took it, gliding with him to the floor, unaware of the many curious eyes that watched. She could think of nothing but the man who stepped so close, his eyes possessing hers.
For all his protestations of not indulging in the recreation, he danced with an expertise not found in many men, his grace and skill unparalleled. Christine had no need to make a point to follow his lead, a bond of the soul pulling them together so that they moved, breathed, and thought as one. She could think of no other way to describe their contact, though she could scarcely think at all.
His long, lean body emitted a strange chill as on previous encounters, despite the heavy cloak he wore. However, the cold did not repel Christine; it only made her wish to move closer, with the hope to warm him. Indeed, the strange growing heat that seeped into her veins from the moment her masked savior entered the ballroom surely would serve to provide enough warmth for them both.
They danced with all propriety, the required distance between their bodies observed, one of his hands clasping hers, the other resting at the bend of her waist…
Yet Christine felt utterly seduced. The soft fire in his eyes alone made her breathless, the look in them as though he wished to devour her.
With any other man, she would feel disgust or alarm, but with this man she did not consider his keen interest an affront. Not when she felt the same intense awareness, ever since the night of the festival, when first she locked eyes with him…
The song ended much sooner than she would have wished. They stood still a moment, neither breaking contact.
"It has been an honor," he told her, his deep rich voice stirring her senses.
"Indeed it has, my lord."
His lips flickered at the corners, but what he would have said next was lost as Raoul approached and the musicians went into a faster Viennese waltz. He looked pointedly at Christine.
"I believe this dance is mine… Sir." Raoul inclined his head stiffly toward the Count in clear dismissal.
Christine was given no opportunity to decline or counter his claim.
With a brisk nod to Raoul, the Count released her. He courteously bowed to Christine, one arm bent behind his back, the other crossed at his waist, then departed. She turned her head to see where he had gone, but Raoul did not allow her the curiosity, taking firm hold of her hands for the next waltz.
"Raoul – was that really necessary?" she scolded as they glided along the dance floor.
"You promised me a dance, and we were interrupted."
"You were quite rude."
"Yet the Count's arrival through the back door at the midnight hour – with no previous acceptance to our sent invitation – you don't call that impolite?"
Christine shook her head, not understanding his thinly veiled antagonism, which felt out of place.
"He is our guest. Uncle hosted this ball to introduce me to the locals. Would you have me be rude to them and achieve the reputation of a snob?"
He sighed, looking chastened. "No, of course not. Forgive me."
She gave a slight nod, wishing it had all gone differently. Wishing to find the Count and apologize for her cousin's sour behavior…
"Now then, don't pout, Lotte. Let us think more agreeable thoughts – I believe you requested only dancing, wine, and music?"
By waltz's end, he managed to entice her smile. But her improved mood began to fray at the edges as she searched the ballroom for any sign of Count cel Tradat. Discreetly she asked a few guests if they'd seen him, but none could give her the answer she desired.
Again, he had slipped away without a word, like a ghost in the night.
xXx
With the ball at last over, Christine retired to her room. The servant Daisy appeared to help remove the cumbersome gown and unlace her corset so she could more easily unhook it from the front. She took down her hair and Daisy began brushing it out.
Christine watched the young servant in the mirror. Short, with fair hair and cheeks as round and rosy as apples, she didn't look much older than Lucy.
"Daisy, how did you come to work at Montmarte?"
"My mum's the cook here. She asked the master, and he gave me this position."
"Have you lived here long?"
"Oh, yes, mistress. Long as I can remember."
"What do you know about the Count cel Tradat?"
The brush stilled against Christine's hair before Daisy resumed the slow strokes to rid it of tangles.
"Isn't much to know really. He lives at Castle Dragan, on the other side of the forest. Me mum said the place was falling to ruin before he took up there. Don't know much else, 'cept that he don't step foot out of doors, not that nobody's noticed – 'til tonight. Like to soil me britches when he showed up so abrupt-like and looking like the devil hisself in that cloak and black mask. Oh, sorry. Mum says I should mind me tongue better."
Christine suppressed a smile. She certainly had heard far worse language from the crew and cast at the Opera House. With her hope of discovering something unknown about the Count a failure, she reassured Daisy and dismissed her for the evening.
Once the maid left, Christine moved to the door and turned the key, as she had done each night of her stay in this gloomy habitation. Yet while she locked her door to keep potential dangers at bay, still distrustful of most who resided at Montmarte, she preferred to sleep with the balcony doors open while the chill weather was still mild enough to allow it.
Slipping her wrapper over her chemise, she moved to the balcony's edge and leaned her arms against the stone rail, allowing the cool breeze to caress her heated cheeks in a whisper of comfort.
Her eyes searched the grounds two stories beneath, then the heavens far above, noting that ashen clouds had scudded over the stars and masked the moon, casting the lawn in deep shadow once more. The encroaching darkness veiled the earth from sight, until the moon again sailed free in nature's tug of war struggle with light versus dark. The dense clouds and waxing moon seized brief ownership of the sky in turn, before losing to the other in recurrent waves, causing the landscape to shimmer in pale silver and dark silhouette. It was clear the moon's battle would soon be entirely lost to the darkness.
"Why do you appear and disappear so often? At the festival. Tonight, in the maze, and then at the ball… Who are you?"
Her low, plaintive words slipped into the night. She wondered why three times he had sought her out and just as often mysteriously left…but most of all she wondered if she would ever see him again.
Christine turned back to her bedchamber in mild frustration, her attention drawn to the dressing table. Every one of the five flames of candles there flickered in an erratic dance to survive – then just as suddenly met their death. Cast in sudden darkness, save for the fleeting glow of the inconstant moon behind her, Christine stood petrified, reminded of earlier, in the maze.
Her senses heightened; she realized she was no longer alone...
And feeling faint, she knew who stood with her.
Leather-clad hands cupped her shoulders. Her heart skipped an erratic beat as his cool lips barely touched the rim of her ear in a whispered breath of warmth -
"Do you really wish to know?"
xXx
A/N: trivia bit: "cel Tradat" is Romanian for The Betrayed (and the reason I chose this for a surname). ;-)