The Phantom

How I smile when I hear my Christine laugh.

My transformation from loving father figure to solely Angel and Tutor has been an extreme benefactor in her expanding talent. The severing of our emotional bond gives us leave to concentrate on her voice and her voice only; hence, I can tutor her in a completely unbiased fashion, and her fear and reverence of me is greater now than it ever was in the beginning. It also demands that she abandon childish and human emotion the second our lessons begin, and therefore it has been years since she has truly laughed—happily—in my presence.

I understand that Christine is, indeed, desperately attached to her humanity, and her willingness to forsake all when she is with me and give herself entirely to me is not lost on my indifferent nature. Though I despise petty human sentiments and accept that routine happiness has no place in my existence, I cannot help but cherish the soprano laughter that betrays joy in my pupil's summery voice. It is good to know that my dark and deceptive influence over her has not bled into her own happiness. I would not, for the worth of my life, wish my own darkness upon her natural light.

Their laughing fit ends. Madame's daughter begins to weave her own far-fetched conclusions into the comedy I orchestrated amongst the staff. She is good for something, at least. "You know, Christine, in any case, with the Phantom so busily rebuking Carlotta, the ballet is safe from his critical eye. He obsesses, I think!"

My eyebrows draw together in indignation, and I abruptly sit tall—and as a corollary, my head smacks into the floorboards. "Ah!" The exclamation leaves my lips before I even think of the consequences.

Two sharp feminine gasps resound, on cue. "What was that?"

Instead of amending the situation, I do the only thing my idiotic mistake calls for. I leave, swiftly, and let them tend to their own confusion.

A young male voice however, draws me back toward the boxes. "Christine!" I am naturally attuned to the name, as I am naturally attuned to the word music, and I am properly inquisitive when it comes to her dealings with the world.

"Etienne…hello!" Christine returns, and Meg voices a greeting as well.

"Hello, Meg. Christine, may I speak with you for a moment?"

A typical silence follows, and I listen carefully to her wordless compliance. Meg says, "You must hurry, Christine—Maman is surely back from market, and practise starts soon." The lightest pair of feet scampers off in a different direction, and I recognise Christine's footfalls and the masculine set as they entre Box Four. Quietly I snake up into the crawlspace beneath the box and pull myself comfortably within the cherub-hung pillars. Etienne—Meg's little interest. It is beyond me why, with his tawdry, newly-formed adolescent moustache.

"It was quite a show last night, wasn't it?"

"It was."

Silence.

"How old are you, again?"

A pause. "Almost fourteen."

"Really? You aren't much younger than me, then. I'm seventeen."

I want to drum my fingers in disgusted anticipation, but the silence does not permit me to do so.

"You danced beautifully, no matter what the other girls say. I mean, I fancy they are just jealous of you."

Christine still says nothing, and I mentally applaud her for remaining apathetic to her colleague's obvious advances. As much as the boy and his juvenile cravings annoy me, I am pleased that he finally salvages enough nerve to approach her at the same moment that Meg's curious ears listen with reddening jealousy just outside the entrance to Box Four. Christine is not an ordinary girl; it is time that Meg is put in her place, and surprisingly, it can even be done without my help.

"I say, Christine, you are really a mystery!"

My grin cannot be contained at the infatuated young man. He is a talented performer (by my manager's standards) in both song and dance, and the handsome object of gossip and affection amongst my theatre's young ladies. Pride that I am reluctant to credit to fatherliness dances in my ribcage. Christine is—

"You know are merely saying that to flatter me!"

My thoughts halt at the sound of Christine's voice. What is that? Bashfulness? She is being coy with him? In my secretive state, I begin to brood. Their conversation continues.

"I wouldn't just say that, Mademoiselle." A shallow, silent chuckle of disbelief escapes me as he settles into his charm. "I think about you all the time, in fact."

Of course you do, you dimwitted prig.

Christine inhales giddily. "I…I admit I don't know what to say to that."

My eyes roll back into my head in disgust. I put far too much faith in my young pupil; she will learn soon not to succumb to such games.

"Then do not say a thing."

What a typical—

"What are you doing?"

A sound of scurrying feet, and Christine is suddenly at the other end of the box.

The hairs on my arms stand erect, even through my heavy sleeves. I snake through the pillar until I am closer to Christine, and fixate my eyes on her through a crack in the marble. I cannot see her face, but I can see Etienne's.

"Would you let me kiss you?"

I want, more than anything, to close my fingers around his neck when Christine giggles at this. Slowly, the dark-haired tenor begins to approach her, from the other side of Box Four.

Mad ire swells from my gut to my eyes, and my ears are hot. Christine submits to none but me! "Christine," I sing softly, confident that only she will hear it. I smile with immense satisfaction as she jumps, and promptly topples over the edge of the velvety seat to the carpet.

"Christine!" cries Etienne.

I clasp my hands together.

"Stop!" my student warns as the young man swoops to help her stand. "Don't you dare ever try to kiss me again, Etienne!"

"But I thought you wanted—"

"You truly aren't one for thought, then!" she scolds, standing herself, and brushing past him. I am duly proud of her quick recovery, but for only an instant as I remember her near assent merely a moment before. Worse than that, though, is the sudden stirring in my loins, the excitement that pervades my body and thoughts that another man desires her, and she is, indeed, a woman, and she did, indeed, reject him for me. She is—

A thirteen year old girl! I bite down at the inside of my cheek fiercely to rid myself of these ridiculous musings.

Beyond the entrance to Box Four, Meg's feet carry her frantically down the corridor, so she will not be caught eavesdropping. Christine leaves Etienne, despite his sorrowful apologies, and I slink out of my hiding place after her, watching her movements through the vents.

Her long legs are easily visible beneath the shapely ballet skirt, and her white arms hug her blossoming chest. She is chilled. Perhaps by the encounter. More likely, by my voice, and the realisation that I am, certainly, watching her and guarding her at every moment. Her rounded lips are pursed into a straight line, and her eyebrows are drawn above her eyes. If there is ever a befitting definition to the word "beautiful," Christine Daae is it. Far more beautiful than any of the rest…more so than the golden cherub Meg, or the sensuous flirt Lisette, or even the voluptuous siren Sorelli. Even in her uncertainty, she is lovely. I remember how much I wanted Madame when she was afraid of me. It is an exploitative duet of power and desire that inflames within me such devious attentions. Christine does not fear me the way Madame did…but she is both grateful and unsettled because of my presence, and the inner rousing heightens as I follow her path.

I cannot take my eyes from her, and I convince myself that I do not need to. I have run from temptation for far too long; instead of running, I will confront it, and wear it down, and prove to myself that I am above such things. I am exhausted of letting it defeat my resolve, and forcing me to forfeit the battle and flee from it. Now, I will show myself that I can look upon her and conquer lust in the same moment.

Christine is making in the direction of the auditorium, and Etienne has ceased his pursuit. For a moment my resolve dithers; she is going to her ballet lessons. I have not let myself watch her in these practises for months, since the ill-fated singing lesson when I discovered that she had changed into a woman. But no—I am above human lust. I am above it. I can conquer it. I will not let it dictate my thoughts, nor my actions. If I choose to watch her dance, I will do so, and with a blameless conscience.

Madame Giry

"One, two, three…one, two, three…."

My students did then plié, battement, and chassé…plié, battement, and chassé…at my command.

"One, two, three…one, two…ah, Mademoiselle Daae."

All heads turned to the flustered young ballerina as she halted in her quiet entrance. "Madame Giry, forgive—"

I let out a sound that was half-sigh, half-growl. I was exhausted—sick!—of her constant pleas for forgiveness. "Just take your position, and make haste." Christine nodded, ever so sombre, and stepped in behind Meg at the barre. Several students sniggered and whispered, and I turned to vent my frustration on them. "Not a sound! Not a word. You are ballerines, not lyricists, danseurs, not criers. Today, you will practice, and continue to do so until I see you fit for tonight's performance."

Groans ascended.

I clapped my hands and tapped my cane loudly against the surface of the floor. "No complaints! Stretch! One, two, three…."

The practice continued for a quarter hour before I stopped them. "Students, forme a line—male and female pairs for warm-up; choose quickly."

A few seconds of hesitation and partners were quickly formed. Meg was instantly approached by a young red-haired suitor, and she smiled politely at him before moving with him into the queue. Her eyes, however, were across the room, and I followed them to where Etienne was propositioning Christine.

My heart dulled. I loved Christine dearly, but it pained me that Marguerite had to witness such obvious affection given by the one she fancied to her best friend.

Jealousy was, perhaps, more dangerous than love.

"In your pairs!"

Something stirred within me, and I could feel the Phantom watching.