Madame Giry

The welts on my wrist and my neck from the lasso were red. Red, and angry.

The bruises on my throat were blue, where his mouth had brutalised me.

I tugged the sleeve down my wrist to conceal the marks on my flesh, and pulled the black scarf around my neck and tied it securely under my left ear. The rough velvet of the scarf stung against the raw burns and fresh bruises, but it would not do at all to parade them shamelessly in front of everyone else. I would take responsibility for them, full responsibility; he had reacted exactly as I'd known he would when I entered his lair.

When dealing with me or any aspect of his life he truly cared about, his emotions and his actions always led in a circle, and they did not fail this time. Uncertainty, anger, and shame—in that order, every time. I could handle the uncertainty easiest, I supposed. His anger, however, if intense enough, would lead to violence, and did often. The shame that came afterward was always terrible, because looking into his eyes when he understood what he'd done was heartbreaking. It always had been.

I had wept my last hours ago, and I would not let myself again. I had made a mistake that was tragic to both of us, and I could not blame him for it at all. I knew when I went searching for him that my curiosity would anger him, but once I discovered his secret I had not realised just how angry it would make me, and my anger had ignited the passion he'd already felt just being in my proximity. Echoing throughout his secret passage, I'd heard everything. His voice entranced me as he sang to Christine, but though I could not make out everything he said, his charade as the Angel of Music became clear by the end of their "lesson" or whichever term fit best, and I willed myself to keep my head and focus not on his voice but on what I would say to him.

Coming had been my first mistake; staying had been my second. But letting him touch me—that had been the greatest mistake of all. From the very first second his hands brushed my skin I should have fled. But I did not flee. I did not escape the hypnotising touch and voice of the man who loved me, haunted me…who I could, and righteously so, never love in return. The song he'd written me years ago still lingered with me. After reading his letter then, I'd folded it and never read it again, so I could forget the lyrics. But he had never forgotten. The words I hadn't let myself long to hear, he sang to me at last. The vast curiosity, the years of denying any small hint of reciprocated love for him overthrew me. I allowed myself—for only a moment—to desert my resolve, because it was only a moment, and a moment could hurt nothing.

I laughed bitterly. A moment, when one is in love, is a lifetime; therefore, though I stole only a moment of abandon for myself, I granted him a lifetime of longing, and of torment. The last time we had touched was perhaps the brief contact of his hands against my arms as he held Meg, but before that, just before I left the Opera to marry Armande. Why had I left in the first place? From the time I rescued Erik from the Gypsy carnival, I wanted him to be my son. My mourning for my brother had not ended when I saved Erik, and without realising it then, I desperately wanted him to take Henri's place. I wanted to raise him, give him the mother he never had, and watch him grow into a fine man whom I could be proud of.

But my Phantom did not trust me the way Henri had. And therefore, I could not care for and protect him the way I had Henri. At first, Erik's respect gave me authority, and I thought I had done something right. But it soon became clear that he did not respect me as a mother at all. Through subtle language and small gifts, and the words his eyes held and the smile his lips wore as he would sing to me, I slowly came to understand his feelings. It was frightening, and my fear grew as his obsession flourished, for his obsession made him dangerous, and caused him to do hazardous things without care or even thought. Obsession, I knew, would cause anger—especially because I was determined not to be what he wanted me to be. Anger caused violence. Lombardi had been his first murder. When it had become obvious that he was killing again, I'd realised for the first time just how deeply his obsession rooted.

"A salary?" I stormed into the attic and threw open the door, scattering sheets of music and dust. I briefly thought of him composing from the grave. "You can't possibly expect him to actually pay it!"

Erik glanced up at me from his table, smiling contentedly, as if he'd known this would happen. Today he wore a mask—black, and his glowing green eyes peered out through the eyeholes. "Can't I?"

Above the right side of his mask, his forehead was strangely clear and unblemished. I could barely distinguish the outline of a strip of prosthetic skin pressed over his disfigurement.

I crossed my arms and straightened my spine; he merely smirked at my authoritative stance. So what! "I understand that your renovations and symphony pieces have done a great deal to spare this theatre. M LaBrant is appreciative of your efforts and the publicity you've brought. But 20,000 francs is ridiculous!"

"Surely you don't believe that. He's bloody wealthy, and bloody greedy, and bloody willing to do anything to keep me around for the Opera's sake."

"His greed, then, will deny you your salary!"

He stared at his fingers as if they were of great interest. "His greed is not for money but for fame; and in return for his money, I can give him just that. I am an extremely busy and productive ghost, and I am in need of compensation." He beamed genuinely at me, and I kept back a smile of my own so he would not recognise my amusement. "I see there is a grin beneath your glare."

I pursed my lips. "Did you hope for a laugh, Monsieur?"

His shoulders lifted in a shrug, but his gaze remained intense, and his smile playful. "I'd hoped." He sighed, and turned his head, feigning indifference. "Since you appear to know so much about my affairs with the administration, Madame, I'll ask you how our agreeable manager took my request."

"He merely laughed at it," I informed him condescendingly, gladdened that my forme standing was taller than his while he sat. "He won't comply with such an extreme demand. If only he knew that his Phantom was nothing more than an impatient seventeen-year-old trickster!"

Erik stood, and without at first realising it, I stepped backward. His eyes sparkled in humour. He was already three fourths of a foot taller than me—and with his height came both maturity and arrogance. "I am not as young as you think, Mademoiselle."

Mademoiselle! "Unless you lied to me about your age when you first came here, you are seventeen, and yes, seventeen is very young." I met his eyes. "And you will mind my wishes, Erik."

"Forgive me, Madame," he amended. He turned toward a chest of clothing. "But you see, age has nothing to do with youth…" his hands gracefully retrieved a strip of rope, tied into a lasso… "or wisdom…" and he stroked up its length, tightening the noose as he went… "or power."

Silence governed. My heart drummed as a possible meaning to his cryptic actions entered my mind. "What is that thing?"

Erik lifted the rope. "Haven't you seen it before?"

My mind flew backward, and I saw his dirty forme over the dirtier Gypsy, his furious, frightened eyes as they watched me through two holes in a burlap sack. The deadly grip of his hands as they held the rope that bound his cage in place around the Gypsy's neck. But of course that wasn't—

"It has served its purpose in giving me what I wanted before," he continued, his voice deep and controlled. "I could easily employ it again, whichever way it would best suit my needs."

It was. He'd kept it? "You wouldn't threaten the manager's life," I said, half-demanding it. He had killed no one since Lombardi—I had made him promise not to ever kill again when I rescued him.

He chuckled. "There are other lives to threaten, but I would not disregard his."

"You like him too much."

"Of course I like him. He's entirely agreeable! But even the most agreeable of men need threatening…from time to time."

"You are all talk, child," I forced, standing a bit taller. "It is a good thing for the world that your promises are not as empty as your threats."

A dark look passed over his eyes, and it stunned me. "Promises."

I nodded, swallowing. "You promised me, Erik, years ago, that you would never kill another human being again. You promised me."

He twisted the rope around his hands. "I remember."

A pause.

"You have…kept your promise, then," I said, my voice low.

His eyes fell to the rope in his hands, and he shifted from his right foot to his left. I could visibly see him tense, and then harden; suddenly, I could hear his breathing, and his shadow seemed to fill the room.

My own breath caught in my throat, and I faltered. "No," I stated. "No, you wouldn't…you haven't…oh Erik, tell me you haven't!"

My silence, my inability to even say the word, enticed him. "Haven't what, Madame? Haven't ended another guilty worthless life? Haven't felt the pulse of a dying man's heart beneath my fingers?"

I shook my head, unwilling to believe what I was hearing. "Erik," I started, my hands shaking, forcing myself to continue. "You cannot do this. You cannot take justice into your own—"

"I can," he growled softly. "And I have. Did you really think the disappearance of the construction team was only a coincidence? Surely lurking in your mind somewhere was an explanation that you didn't dare entertain?"

My jaw was paralysed.

"Rest assured, each man on the team was hiding some filthy past, some unforgivable secret—I made sure of it before employing them. They were guilty men who had the talent to do as I asked. But there is more. Do you remember Elliot, your moustache'd colleague who nearly raped you in the dormitories?"

My mind flashed to the dark haired Italian. Three years ago. He had been quite in love with me, and one night in the dorms he'd tried to kiss me. Though I was indeed interested, I had been too firmly invested in my training to let him, not wanting a distraction, and I'd yelled at him a bit. The next morning, he committed suicide—and I blamed myself.

Erik's revealing gaze brought me from my thoughts, and my heart crashed. I brought my hand to my mouth and sucked in the air, shaking my head, as I finally realised that it hadn't been a suicide at all.

In one swift stride he was before me, and he backed me into a wall. I gasped and turned my face, unsure what to do or think, as he held the rope before my eyes. "Touch it," he demanded. "Hold it. Death scares you so much?"

"Stop it!" I shouted, and I shoved him; we both stared at my hands as if neither of us recognised them. My heart still raced, but I forced my breathing into submission and tried to collect myself. "Please," I said. "Please…I don't want to look at you and…and see…"

His eyes clouded, and his head dropped a bit. He tucked the rope back into the chest gently, his entire posture drenched in his sudden shame. "A murderer." His back was to me—his forme was slender and his shoulders were broadening, but the defeated tone of his voice reminded me that he was still a boy. "I'm sorry, Madame." He closed the chest, and turned around unsurely to face me. "But I promise you—" A tense pause. "I've only ever used the lasso to purge the waste of this world that ceased to be human long ago."

I listened to him, desperately wanting to excuse him, but my mind still reeled—my Erik was, indeed, a murderer. A murderer of injustice, he'd reasoned, but what was his understanding of injustice? Elliot had not tried to rape me, but he killed him. Whom else had he killed, mistaking their innocence for guilt?

In my incredulity, I grew angry—and his hurt disposition ensured that anything I now said would remain with him. "I cannot believe you would do this. I cannot accept that you have become just like the men I rescued you from." He flinched, and dropped into his chair, taking my reprimand. "If you respect me at all, you will not break your promise again. You will never use your lasso to end another human life; you are too young to understand the power you wield, and far too ignorant to determine a grievance and deal a proper sentence!"

At the word "ignorant" his fists began to clench, and though I knew I had undermined his experience with injustice, I would not falter under his rage again. I swiftly turned and left the attic, slamming the door shut behind me, and as I hurried down the stairs, I heard a powerful crash from within the room.

Because of me, he didn't kill for years. And also because of me, he killed again years later.

I looked over my reflection in the mirror. The scarf did not look out of place, but of course it was out of character. Part of my image as both feminine and powerful demanded that I not follow current fleeting fashions, but dress simply, strictly, and elegantly. Exposing my neck revealed both grace and confidence. Covering it…I had many guesses at what that might reveal. But none of my students would question me about it; I would leave their uncertainty to their gossip.

My thoughts returned to Armande, whom I once so naïvely thought could save me. When I met him, I was confused. It had taken me years to finally understand that I could never have the Phantom of the Opera as my child—which had given him years to strengthen his hold over my torment and make me battle with my own resistance. When I at last came to this understanding, I was afraid. Afraid to remain with a soul so violent and beautiful haunting my every step, who injured my leg and ruined my dreams of dancing, who nurtured me and sang me back into health and did everything he could to revive my talent and restore my will to go on. Afraid to continue my relationship with the murderer I was hopeless to want as blameless, the boy I was desperate to want as my son, the man I was terrified to want as….

My mind would not complete the sentence, and again my thoughts went back to Armande—because Armande was safety. Sweet Armande, who loved me more than anyone else in the world but the Phantom. He saw my fear and he saw my pain, and he wanted to take me from it; and fleetingly, I believed he could. I did love him, too, which was a shock to myself, for I didn't believe in love. I loved him because I needed him and because he brought me what appeared to be security and happiness, but it hardly went deeper than that, and he recognised it. It drove him to be unfaithful, but it was because he wanted me and couldn't have me, not all of me. And his adultery led to his death.

A lump began to forme in my throat. Of course I still missed Armande, but it was Erik, whom I cared for in such a complicated but genuine way, that I now mourned for. It was knowing that Erik had ended Armande's life in his jealousy and twisted sense of justice, and that in doing so he had sealed his fate, that made me want to weep now. It was impossible, after that, for me to accept his love, but I was the only one of the two of us who could understand that.

"I left the Opera when I realised you could never be my son," I said aloud, "and because I was in danger of loving a fallen Angel." I straightened again before my reflection, not liking the look of defeat and finality that came with my claim. "But that was years ago," I hissed at the mirror, entirely confident that he was not in my room, could not see me, could not hear me. What I was about to say was the absolute truth, but I couldn't bear for him to hear it. "And now I know that I could not love the man who murdered my husband and almost killed me as well."

…

Christine

The door was locked. I was sitting on the floor. It was an hour before suppertime. Then where was my Angel?

I took a deep breath, a little frightened. This was the third day he had not come. Had I done something wrong? Maybe he really was angry with me for almost giving away our secret. But I hadn't told Madame Giry at all. Why, I'd even lied to her and told her I'd only dreamt about the Angel of Music.

"Angel of Music, are you listening?

"Why aren't you here with me?"

But he did not answer.

For two years he had been tutoring me, and I learned to feel his presence...not only here in my dressing room, but in the chapel, and the dorms, and in the ballet rehearsal chambers. Most often he was silent, but on rare and delightful occasions, I would hear him softly sing my name amidst the noise, in a tone only I could recognise. Even without his voice, though, I could always tell if he was watching me. Sometimes I could even smell him; he always smelt of candle-smoke and roses.

Tonight, though, he wasn't with me, and hadn't been the two nights before it. This had never happened before!

"Here in the silence I listen

"Searching for even a hint

"Know that my certainty's thinning

"And my patience spent!"

I crossed my arms, pouting, sure that if he was hiding from me he couldn't resist a playful banter such as the one I offered, one that was very similar in lyrical nature to reprimands he'd given me.

Silence.

I waited, unfolding my arms and circling them around my legs. I sang it well, I was sure. I had even incorporated the vibrato he'd been recently instructing me to use. He'd said that for a nine-year-old girl, trained vibrato was a "vastly premature and equally astounding tool that intensifies ear-pleasing shimmer"—I wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but surely it was a good thing, for there had been a smile in his voice instead of a scowl. Well, my vibrato was far from trained, but the tremolo effect it had on my young strains gave me a very mature and adult-sounding voice, I thought!

"Angel, where are you?" I exclaimed, because I didn't have the patience to practise my lyrics or the confidence to produce a beautiful sound. "You've never left me before," I accused, and bit my tongue. I certainly didn't want to sound angry! "I'm frightened. What ever have I done to make you not want to see me?"

I stood when there was no response, and circled the dressing room, my eyes on the ceiling. Surely it would do me no good to look down for an Angel! "Master?" I called, my fright growing with each passing second. Yesterday and the day before, I figured he was terribly busy, or he wanted me to rest. But this was the third day, and it had already been twenty minutes! That left only forty for my lesson…if there was going to be a lesson.

But more time passed. I didn't know whether I was supposed to be sad, scared, or angry, but regardless of what I was supposed to be, I was scared. The Angel has left me, I was suddenly beginning to realise. I couldn't sing without him! In fact, I didn't even know what to do without him. He was my whole world! He was all, and everything…he was my guardian, he was my friend, he was my teacher, my master…he was like my father. Oh, Father…what have I done?

Searching the room desperately for a hiding place for my invisible Angel, I wanted to cry. For the first time in two years, I missed Papa terribly. It was nearly suppertime. I knew what to do! I would go to the chapel. Through the tears that stood in my eyes, I found my dresser, and from the top shelf I grabbed a soap-white candle. Hiding it in my skirt, I fled to the door, unlocked it, and opened it…and ran straight into Madame Giry.

"Oh, Madame, I'm so, so sorry!" I stammered, and burst into tears.

Madame's arms came around me, and I just cried into her shoulder. She was so very strict sometimes, I wasn't sure what to do! "Hush, child. Hush, Christine."

I hiccupped, nodding, and sniffed loudly, trying to stop my tears.

She knelt before me, and through blurry eyes I could see that she looked afraid, too. "Christine…Christine, what has happened? Has someone hurt you?"

I shook my head. "No," I said. But I couldn't think of anything else to say.

She took my face in her cold, slender hands. "Why are you crying? Are you sure no one hurt you?" Her eyes were very hard, and secretive. "I want the truth from you, Miss Daae, and I won't accept anything else."

I shook my head, my jaw moving between her palms. "No one hurt me, I promise." Why did she stare at me so? All I wanted was to get to the chapel and light my candle. "Sometimes it's entirely acceptable to be sad."

Her brow furrowed, and she shook her head. "You are too young to understand what that means, child. Mirroring my words is only an excuse. There is something you aren't telling me."

"I miss Father," I said, tears falling again, and her hands went from my cheeks to my shoulders tenderly.

"You told me only days ago that when you missed your father, all you had to do was think about the Angel of Music." My heart beat faster, and I knew she was going to ask me all sorts of questions again! "Why don't you think of him now?"

I opened my mouth, thinking of all sorts of answers, but not one came.

Her gaze implored me. "What has changed, Christine?"

I bit down on my lip. "The Angel of Music doesn't bring me comfort anymore."

Her eyes flitted into the dressing room, and back to me. "Did—does thinking of the Angel scare you?"

I shook my head. "Never."

She sighed. "Do you believe he is angry with you?"

I shook my head indignantly. "I thought you didn't believe in the Angel of Music," I pointed out, sniffling. Madame Giry stood, and for the first time I could ever remember, she didn't say a word. There was so much silence, in fact, that I couldn't stand it! "Please, Madame, I am missing my father terribly…can I go to the chapel before dinner?"

She nodded curtly, and I took my chance; the candle still rolled up in my skirt, I scurried down the hallway.