Erik
Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing.
Christine is no different.
Her imagination, I notice, is endless, but that is only when I can coax her thoughts from her creative mind. I once observed that she is shy even in her own presence, and I know now that she is the same in mine. She is a little girl with a mind for strict business, and I note that she is ashamed if she lets herself act like the child she is when she is with me. Every evening before her dinner she retreats to her dressing room silently and inconspicuously, and locks the door. She then sits wordlessly on the floor and waits for me.
I am always there before her, but I like to watch her before beginning our lessons, and listen when she will occasionally sing to herself, to see if she is indeed employing my instructions. She never fails me. In fact, she clings to every word I ever say, and even those times it appears she isn't listening, she soon proves to me that she does. She reads music far better than she reads words—her father never read to her, I've learned, but gave her storeys from his own imagination and encouraged her to do the same. Christine wants to read, and I have adopted the task to teach her that as well.
I have never bothered with the affairs of other human beings. Their lives lack mystery and their priorities are always backward. So I don't know why I take such an interest in Christine's day-to-day, imploring her to talk to me, and finding ways to ease her so she knows it is proper to speak with an Angel on friendly terms. I will ask her of her day, and she will say that it was spent anticipating her next lesson while she danced. I will ask her of her friends, and she will speak of little Giry, and say that other than Meg she has none. She is always eagre to begin singing, to show me that she has been practicing, and wanting to learn more.
Of course…perhaps Christine is only part of my game, the game I have only longed to be reality, the game in which I am a normal man and I have a normal family. Given, my interactions with her are far from normal…but when she speaks to me, and when she listens to me, I can imagine that things are different. It is my game, my own to play, and when I play I can pretend all I like.
I am never conclusive in my thoughts regarding Christine's friendship with Meg. The part of me that wishes to father Christine wants her to have many friends, many dear friends, to preserve her happiness—but then I wish for her to have nothing to do with the world, and to rely solely on me for her comfort. As always, I am still embittered toward little Giry, as she is the product of the union which struck my hold on Madame to pieces, and his daughter. If Christine must have a friend apart from me, does it have to be the bastard-ess of my Madeleine's unholy matrimony? At least Armande is dead, and he has nothing to do with us anymore.
The one thing that can take Christine's mind away from our lessons is when I ask her of her father and her life before the Opera. This is the tactic I always employ when I know she longs to talk and isn't sure how or if she even should. With my encouragement, though, her eyes will fill with happiness, and she will recall all of the storeys that her father used to tell her and tell them back to me with her own relishes and ornamentation. She will relate to me of her travels when her father would go from town to town to play, and how Elaine, and Raoul, and her other little friends would always sit and listen to him sing around a fire at night.
"And what happened when the baker discovered his missing pastries?"
"Oh, he blamed the milk boy, of course," she giggles. And all of a sudden her eyes widen mysteriously, and she whispers, "We never told Father that it was us. You won't tell him now, will you?"
"It is our secret," I whisper back, just as conspiratorially.
She grins an impish grin, and sighs, settling back beside the fireplace. "How I miss Raoul. He always got me out of trouble."
"For such a sweet little girl, Christine," I say to her, "you managed to bring all sorts of mayhem down onto your friends."
"Oh, it wasn't always just me!" she says. "I was never the brave one. I had lots of ideas, but I never would test them unless Raoul or the others encouraged me, or escorted me."
"I thought you said Raoul would get you out of trouble."
"Yes, after he got me into trouble!" she amends, and our laughter mingles musically in the acoustics of the room. "Actually, I never would have done those things if it weren't for Raoul and his friends. I liked to tell storeys and make up all sorts of mischievous things to do, but then they would want me to do them." She sighs. "I suppose I only ever wanted them to accept me the way Raoul did. If it weren't for that, we wouldn't have always been in so much trouble."
"You should never need to prove yourself to gain acceptance," I return, my voice hovering over bitterness. "If the world does not accept you, the world does not deserve you."
She thinks on this for a moment. "I learn so much from you, Angel." She crosses, and uncrosses, her legs. "I am quite a lucky girl to be taught about things from one of God's Angels!"
I am not one of God's Angels. "Lucky…no, Christine, you are blessed, and deserving of it." And to my dismay but acceptance, she darkens a bit, and glances at the floor, her quiet reserve overcoming her again. "All right, child," I smile. "Are you ready?"
She bounds from her spot and stands straight, animated now that our lesson has formally begun.
"Chromatic scales—beginning with middle C, legato."
It amazes me that the little girl has such flawless pitch. I don't even need to play the C on the violin before she lands the note perfectly. Christine sings, effortlessly at first, but as the scales ranges higher she begins to falter.
"The soft pallet, Christine," I remind her; "raise it as if you need to yawn."
Without pausing in her scales, she begins to correct her error. The notes become taller, and her confidence grows. When I tell her to spread her feet, she does so without interrupting her vocals. She takes instructions surprisingly well, and is trained to respond without forgetting every other effort she is momentarily utilising. Surely her father gave her lessons from the time she was much smaller; even those with natural talent are not born with the basics so embedded.
"Stop now, Christine," I instruct before she strains her cords, and she closes her mouth, eyes wide with anticipation of my report. "You constantly astound me with your willingness to be moulded. You've remembered everything your father ever taught you."
She beams, and I know I am correct in my assumption. "His lessons were a great deal like yours, Master."
Master. I have been promoted. "A marvellous teacher, your father," I relish, stroking my own pride.
Christine agrees wholeheartedly. "He must have learned something from you." She plays at the carpet with her toe, and smiles sheepishly. "He was a lot like you, actually, Angel. In fact, when I am with you, I feel like—I feel like I am with him again, and I don't miss him at all."
Good. Extremely good, I realise. My role as an Angel is strikingly different than my role as the Phantom—as the latter, I find pleasure in frightening and manipulating. As the former, I find strange, misplaced joy in bringing comfort. To Christine alone, however. Of course, I want to comfort Madeleine, but part of my advantage over her is the fear I instil in her, and I want to overwhelm her with both comfort and fear—this is the proper balance in the unique power I hold over the ballet mistress. Christine is the one soul in the world who will remain exempt from my frightening reign, and for a reason I have yet to fully understand, that pledge brings me happiness. "Christine," I whisper. "My Angel."
Her eyes are flooding with tears ready to spill over. Tears of elation are the only kind I allow her. She smiles up at the ceiling gratefully. How I want her to look in my eyes! "I wish I could tell Madame Giry. She doesn't understand why I am so happy."
Oh, Madeleine. "She will understand in time. I promise you." I think of her pretty face and of the concern in her gaze when she held Christine—and her hopeless, yet honourable, attempts to uncover our secret. How…far…we had come, that it had come to this. I promise. You will understand in time.
But even I do not yet know when that time will be. I once resolved to tell Madame of my tutorship of Christine as soon as I was sure my plan could not fail. Now, I am sure. And Madame still does not know. It is possible that I enjoy her fruitless sleuthing and pride myself that I still keep her under my hand. But it is more than that. As much as I am doing this to win my Madeleine back, I do not trust her to trust me. It is right then, that I must wait. I must wait until evidence of my influence is so clear in Christine that even Madame, with her untrusting nature, will understand that what I have done is, indeed, a good thing.
Her Erik is capable of doing good things, really. She merely doesn't yet know that her dark Phantom is an Angel as well.
A/N…Forgive me that nothing much has happened in the last couple of chapters. Things will pick up soon.