Christine

"My Lady?"

I did my best to muster a glare. In the business of the moment and in a room this size, I could not tell if the Angel was still with me. But regardless, his subtle warning had shaken me well into awareness. Etienne was handsome—though I was not entirely fond of his moustache—and he had an endearing voice and was a fantastic dancer. But he was, after all, Meg's fancy, and I would be a traitor to our friendship if I were to let something develop between us. Meg was far too important to me to be lost over what the Angel dismissed as a childish infatuation. Besides all that, the Angel would clearly not be pleased. He always encouraged me to keep my distance from the others, and constantly warned me against the attentions of the theatre's young men, who were "smooth as a snake but equal in their poison." I soon came to understand him, and I was not fond of the notion to disagree, or worse, outright defy his concerns.

"Come now, Christine. I am sorry for trying to kiss you. But please—partner with me?"

"There are other girls," I said flatly, turning my head to find Meg, but to my surprise she was already partnered—and cold. I threw her a helpless gaze, but she merely turned from me. My heart fell at such a gesture, but in that same instant, my hand was taken up and I was being led to the queue. I did not risk making a scene in front of the others by resisting Etienne—far too much attention was drawn to me already because of my rather trifling skill of the dance. To be perfectly honest, I was a bit thrilled by his forwardness, though shameful to be thrilled. Against all good judgement and for the sake of better judgement, I let him take me to the line.

Our steps were simple, but maddeningly intimate; not by the world's standards, but by my own, and by the Angel's, I was sure. Etienne would not let me leave his gaze; our eyes were locked. His charming grin teased me. "Have you ever had a beau, Christine?"

How utterly forthright! My spine tingled. "It is not your matter to suffer."

Madame called our directions, and he spun me backward into him. His words came from behind me. "But I do suffer."

I was, after all, a girl. I bit at my lip to keep from giggling at such a charming response. But I was determined, regardless of the emotions I found stirring within me, not to fail Meg, or the Angel. I did my best to stiffen within his embrace. "Then you suffer alone."

He seemed duly impressed by my retort, and my heart pounded that I'd actually had the nerve to say it! My boldness had never been in speech—only in action. "Tell me, Christine. Please—I want to know."

At Madame's signal, he spun me around until I was facing him. The sound of chatter and scraping feet drowned our conversation into a void. "I did," I relented, confident. "He was a vicomte."

"A vicomte!" Etienne cried. "Who?"

"You wouldn't know him," I declared, remaining hard. "He lives in Nior now. We were very much in love."

Madame's voice sounded above the noise, and Etienne's skilled hands lifted me three feet from the floor, where I struggled to retain the proper forme. "When was this?" he enquired, grinning.

I averted my eyes. "Some time ago."

He brought me back to the floor into a spin. "You have been at this conservatory since you were seven. Do you mean to tell me that you fell in love before your front teeth even grew in?"

I frowned at him fiercely for shedding reality on my ignorant claim. "He was very special to me, and he remains so, Etienne." I decided it was very helpful to use my affection for Raoul as a scapegoat. When had I so favoured cunning?

Etienne frowned as well, and looked to the side, before passing me to his other arm. "Do you believe you will see him again?"

I said nothing, which resulted in Etienne's irritatingly knowing nod. Still, after all of these years, I missed Raoul. He was, perhaps, a fond memory that I associated with my father. It did not make sense to me—I had the Angel, after all, and I shouldn't need any other apparition of my past to comfort me. I still thought of Raoul often, though he had undoubtedly forgotten our adventures. "He promised once to marry me," I offered at the silence between us.

"Christine, you were only a baby!" Etienne drew me into his chest and dipped me backward. "Do you really think a vicomte is going to return for a mere ballerina and marry her? He is far too enriched in society to risk something such as that!"

All of my fondness for Etienne vanished in that moment. With anger that stemmed from something much deeper than simple hurt feelings, I growled at him, "You value me so little, Etienne? You yourself are nothing more than a theatre rat!" His stunned expression, however, was not hurt—instead, it was amused. I tried from a different angle. "You pretty yourself and trim your moustache, but not even your countenance combined with your skills as a performer impress me! You fancy yourself a good catch, I suppose, but you're nothing more than a sweet tenor voice and a swift step. Why, you might as well join the Queen of the Night's fops in their ridiculous fawning on stage tonight! Heaven knows you'll have a better audience."

At that, Etienne burst into a spell of incredulous laughter. I wasn't sure at which I should be more shocked—Etienne's unexpected reaction, or my own boldness. I had never spoken so to anyone before! Immediately I could feel my face flush, and I turned my head from him and longed to bury myself in my curls. How utterly ridiculous I must have looked…and sounded. Thank goodness no one else had witnessed my display.

The remainder of the warm-up passed in silence, and I avoided his grins and purposefully intimate hands. When I found it within myself to meet his eyes, I offered him only glowers of the fiercest kind. My self-confidence returned just enough to display itself without fostering careless words. Thoughts of all sorts entered my head, and each had to do with the Angel—would he be proud of me for resisting Etienne? Of course. Would he sense that at first I did not want to resist? I hoped not, but my past experiences with his nature seemed to assure otherwise. Did he view my outburst as commendably daring…or impudent audacity? This I did not know. Perhaps I wasn't as associated with his nature as I would have liked to think. It was possible that he wasn't even with me, though I suspected he was; I was understanding more and more every day just how closely I was watched.

This thought alone both thrilled and frightened me. In fact, it was a bit like what I had felt when first with Etienne—delighted, and nervous, and unsure—but different. Deeper. Etienne didn't scare me. The Angel did not, either, but he was…well, he made me feel…well, I should only feel happy, ecstatic even, and grateful! But at times it was unsettling. Possibly because he was so strict. But then, I'd always asked him to be strict. He had every right to be.

The minute the warm-up ended, I broke away from Etienne. I could not sort my thoughts at all. I loved the Angel and respected him, more than anything else in the world. The realisation that my thoughts had centered on him entirely was comforting, that his importance in my life was at least not lost on me. And yet….

"Rond de jambe!" came Madame Giry's command.

I circled my toe about the floor, certain that I was doing it wrong as I watched the graceful movements of the other dancers. I adored singing; sometimes I hated dancing.

"No, Christine, like this!"

I let Madame demonstrate and aid me, my thoughts still fully on my Angel. Only a few months before he told me how he disapproved of my dancing—not my ability, but my lessons themselves. When I tried to promise him that I would happily withdraw from the academy, however, he refused to let me.

The Angel of Music was the greatest mystery in all the world. And as much as Angels are light and understanding, I was more than a little intrigued by that mystery.

…

The Phantom

That stupid girl, Christine!

Blast, how proud I am of her that she put the boy in his place, and insulted his sordid moustache. Blast! How stupid of her to let anger govern her movements! Passion adopts many formes, possesses several different behaviours. She is attracted to the charismatic tenor, no doubt. Or, perchance, she had been until his idiotic remark devalued her character. I have not often glimpsed Christine's anger—she would never dare direct it toward myself or let it surface when she is with me. But her fury at the foolish boy was as unrestrained as I have ever seen her. Christine is capable of anger, then! It is both refreshing…and maddening! How dare she behave so stupidly! In the midst of the raging battle between my mind and body, I cannot afford to fight against her infuriated passion! But her lips are full, and my soul is hungry.

Yes…I approached the class backstage with every resolve to conquer my lust. Oh, I am indeed a genius. I am incensed enough right now to admit to my own stupid arrogance. When desire runs wild, it takes on a mind of its own, and I am helpless against it. The Bible demands that we flee from temptation—as much as I resent the God who wrote it, I must begrudgingly give Him credit for that. I was a fool to think that I am capable of glaring at temptation in the face and beating it at its own game. My passion was already ignited today when I first began to observe Christine in her dance. What my mind and, yes, my heart sees when I look upon my student holds no consequence at all. My eyes perform only for the sake of my body, and my flesh hungers after the woman I behold and gives not a second thought to principle.

I am not as unwise as I first deem myself, for I did flee. As soon as she left Etienne's arms, I left as well. For hours I have meditated upon music, upon Gustave's violin, and conjured every memory I retain of fathering Christine, and Christine when she was a child, and not a woman. For hours I have assured myself that I am not the monster, that it is Erik, because my mind and soul are as disconnected from my body as they can possibly be whilst still supporting my mortal existence. My flesh is necessary to tutor Christine; as much as I humour myself as a Ghost and an Angel, my flesh reminds me that I am still, ever reluctantly, a man, with a man's body, and said body allows me to teach Christine and mould her into my creation.

And still, this human body which does so much good, succumbs to lust! How familiar this situation resounds within me. Madame would be infuriated.

I did say, yes, that I am not as unwise as I first deemed myself. I lied. Such a claim is ludicrous. I am the idiot of the nation! I am the greatest fool the world has ever birthed. Because I did flee—for hours I fled—only to return to her dressing room before the second performance of Die Zauberflöte.

And here I am. And there she is.

Christine has collapsed atop her divan breathlessly. "Madame Giry pushed us harder than ever," she gasps, and her chest heaves for want of breath—up, and down, rising and falling, gentle, and then fierce, and rapid. My eyes will not shut as I gape at her through the mirror. She glistens still with sweat. Like a fair white flower after a placid rain.

My voice. I have that still, right? "Christine…you will want to costume yourself. The performance begins in less than a half of an hour." Yes, get her out of my vision. Get her out of my thoughts. Get her into her revealing getup. You ass!

Christine reluctantly pulls herself into a standing position, slowly, like a cat, and raises her arms above her head in a releasing stretch. I swallow thickly, pursing my dry lips, and then wetting them, over and over again. She captivates me. Her every move consumes me. Her long, tightly curled chestnut locks fall carelessly over her white throat and gently rounded breasts. Her ballet uniform hugs her waist tightly, and I envy it. And the skirt that flows from her hips, in all its modesty, reveals far too much when she kneels to rub her sore feet. Her skirt reveals too much? My eyes are no longer on her legs, but her blouse, which exposes her delicate pale chest as she kneels, exposes it to my fascinated eyes. "I feel far too exhausted to perform tonight," she mutters, and then laughs a bit. Her laugh is like the wind spinning about the soft spring flowers of a meadow. "I suppose I haven't a choice, though." And with that, she skips toward the closet, full of new energy.

I root myself to my spot in the dank corridor, centering my thoughts everywhere but the passage that will lead me to the dressing room's rafters, where everything is visible. Even the view behind her changing curtain. No! Such a thought is repulsive, and wicked. I have never thought to watch her as she dresses before now. I busy myself with thoughts of the violin, and close my eyes, searching for a melody and trying frantically to calm myself with it.

A moment passes. I hear Christine struggle with her costume, a grunt that could easily be mistaken for pleasure, and the stirring in my loins that hasn't left me all day fights desperately to make itself known. My student at last emerges from behind her screen, and my breath catches in my throat. It is the same costume she wore last night—the same scanty peasant-girl attire—but last night I had the entire production to fill my senses with, and I did not want her as I do now. She studies herself in the mirror, her lips drawn into a frown, and adjusts the costume about her body.

"Christine," I breathe, and suck at my teeth at the stupidity of such an action.

Christine jumps. "I didn't know you were still here!"

"I just returned," I recover quickly, my eyes drinking in their fill of her sumptuous forme. At the back of my mind, protests and screams of defiance attack me, but I cannot hear them correctly. This is wrong. I should flee. "I want you to sing for me…just once…before you perform tonight."

Christine smiles widely at this—she is always eagre to sing for her Angel. She is lovely when she is eagre. She looks almost hungry. Merde! Cease this! "Anything?" she asks excitedly.

"Anything you please," I force out, fully hearing the husky glaze over my voice…and, all of a sudden, not heeding it. The woman before me parts her full, rounded lips and begins. I do not know what the words are—I cannot concentrate. The voice entices me out of my mind and fills the caverns of my body. Her tongue rolls off every unknown word and coats each in silky, saccharine music…figuratively caressing every inch of my skin with its soft, supple warmth…teasing at my eardrums and drawing heat from my soul and through my flesh. I want to cry out, but I cannot. Her voice…her voice…it is as if I am paralysed, and have not even the desire to struggle against it. My desires are entirely occupied elsewhere. Slowly, I feel myself sway inwardly within the heat of—

Stop! The voice is not audible, and I have no idea from where it comes, or from whom. Perhaps it is the Phantom, begging me to shield myself from such human, animal passion. Or perhaps—perhaps it is Erik. Perhaps he loves Christine enough, enough to keep the Phantom from….

Damn it! Who am I, even?

The scream sounds again in my head, and I force myself to look away from Christine—and instead at my hand, which plays the violin along with her unearthly voice in supernatural accompaniment. As I watch my hand in feigned fascination, it begins to shake, and the music the instrument produces wavers and dithers. I quickly lift the bow, soundlessly, from the strings, and wrap it within my discarded cape—when had I discarded it?—and set it gently on the floor, with trembling fingers.

Christine's song rises, in strength, and in fervour.

The colour that soars from her vocal chords is the colour of maturity, and complements her newly developing curves that hint provocatively of womanhood, which disguise the childlike soul within. Her voice is like both fire and balm against my writhing heart and mind. Writhing…like two lovers, a man and a child, who writhe against each other, beneath the weight of their own lust and a quilt…or in the open air, with a crisp breeze or the pounding heat of the sun. Pounding….

I cannot keep my thoughts at bay—not like this. Slowly, I reach around my side until my quaking hand grasps the dagger at my hip.

Her legato waterfall of music floods my mind and streams into my soul, and trickles into the deepest region of my flesh. The natural pleasures of man that I have for my whole life been denied are waiting for me mere feet away. All that divides us is her belief that I have no human body—and a pane of magical glass. It may not be enough to stop me. My hands burn for the feel of her naked skin, and my ears smoulder for the harsh caresses of euphoric moans. It is time to end this, and to end it in blood, as I once did when Madeleine tempted me.

I raise the white garment from the hem of my trousers until my waist is exposed to the dancing torchlight. I press the edge of the dagger against the long, thick scar along my side. The steel is cold against the sweltering heat of my skin. If I cannot rid myself of this lust by merely averting my eyes, I will force my thoughts elsewhere through physical pain. Christine leaps an octave, and the fine, sharp tip of the dagger slits into the scar. Hot blood spills over the deep tan of my skin and the steely silver of the blade, and stunning pain marauds my senses.

But instead of conquering the desire that courses through my veins, it merely joins it—and sets my nerves even more ablaze.

I clench my teeth against the pain of the reopened wound and the pain of my hardening body against the material of my pants. This has always worked before. Physical pain has always recaptured my straying mind during such ordeals. Why is it not working now? Dread fills my blood and pumps throughout my heated system with every beat of my heart. I don't know what to do. I have no idea what to do. I want to scream out and yell in mad frustration that I have lost the control that I've always had over my desire. This has never happened before. It is out of my hands, and I don't know how to handle it!

I force open my eyes, and my body stiffens.

Christine sways to her own euphoric music, and her eyes are closed and her face is lifted toward the heavens as her throat expels the most inhumanly breathtaking music I, in my passion, have ever heard in my unfortunate life.

My mind goes blank.

And slowly, my hand drops to my trousers.

…

Christine

The song slowed and rounded on itself, dipping into minor. Singing in a minor key always excited me—there was something so dark and cryptic and soulful about minor chords. I pressed my hands into my torso, working to support my breath and push out as much sound as possible. I was giddy, and light—my voice was exceptionally beautiful, no doubt resulting from the adrenaline of my argument with Etienne—and the Angel would surely hear it!

The notes jumped in staccato fashion and picked up speed and intensity. The rhythm pounded away at the string of notes, like a hammer against a block of concrete, fashioning an image of utmost beauty.

He had stopped accompanying me with Father's violin, but I knew to continue. Perhaps he was so impressed, he wanted only to listen to my voice. Then again…I tried not to focus on it, but perhaps he was not impressed at all. It was entirely possible that I was only fooling myself, and I was either trying far too hard or completely deaf to the sound of my own voice. My brow furrowed, but I forced a smile as I continued my song. His silence unnerved me…and now I could only worry.

The crescendo was in sight. I breathed deeply and approached it with a running start, beckoning all of my strength and as much passion as I could muster, and rising with it. The key gradually ascended from minor to major as I scaled the final melody, and with a triumphant series of trills and arpeggios I fell into the climax, my voice swelling and softening with the rise and fall of the fluttering descent. The Angel then said something, or made a sound—a deep, guttural sound, but I could hardly hear him against my own voice. I held the last note as long as I could while still retaining control of my voice and vibrato, and finally released it, sucking in a deep and heavy breath as soon as the music stilled.

There was silence. Only the sound of my own shallow breaths, and his, strangely echoing my own. "Angel?" I swallowed, my nerves standing on end, dreading his reaction, though it seemed as if I had never sung so in my life. "Did you say something while I sang?"

I held my breath, and I heard only his. I clenched my fists, and my heart raced. His silence was frightening me—truly frightening me. I cursed myself. I had done something wrong, I knew it, I knew it without even understanding what, or why.

"Oh, Christine."

My heart stopped. I had thought his silence frightening—but his voice was far worse. I had never heard such a sound before. My name on his lips was so broken, so sad, deeply, deeply sad, and troubled. He said my name again, and his voice shook. It shook so fiercely, tears sprang to my eyes. This was not an easy day—this was a day that should mark triumph, personal or not, but no, triumph would escape me just as Fate would have it. The Angel's sadness was now my own. Oh, what had I done?

"Angel?" I ventured, and my own voice trembled. I almost thought to marvel at how dependent my emotions were on his; but in my mind I couldn't forme a complete thought. His heavy breaths were choked with tears. Tears? Was he crying? He was crying? He was…he was. "Oh, Angel, why are you crying?" I whispered, and the tears that stood in my eyes fell onto my cheeks. My hand came to my chest. I had never heard him cry—I had never even thought he was able to cry! "Angel!"

"No, Christine!" His voice shattered about me, and I fell backward onto my divan in fear, fear of the supernatural powers beyond my comprehension. I had never heard such sorrow—not only in his voice, but in any voice in the world. Not even in my own. Not even my grief for my father tainted my vocal chords in such a way. "Get out! Get out, Christine, get out now!"

I drew my knees up to my chest in a horrified confusion, and put my face in my hands, sobbing, and cursing myself again and again. But curses are weak, and they were to no avail and had no command over my movements. What had I done?

"GET OUT!" My hands went from my face to my ears as he screamed, and my heart froze within me, freezing all of my limbs. Horror flooded my senses—he was so loud! My head pounded…I had never known him to be so angry. Why couldn't I leave? Stupid girl! I screamed inwardly. I had lost my senses, and I couldn't even control my own limbs. I wept loudly, frantically, willing my legs to move, to take me as far from him as I possibly could. Go, Christine! Get out! His livid command matched my own. "GET OUT, YOU LITTLE SIREN!"

From somewhere within me, strength was found, and without even realising it my legs sprang from the divan and I flung myself at the door. The Angel's horrendously loud fury attacked me from every wall, from the carpet and the ceiling, from the divan and the mirror and the closet and the paintings on the wall as he screamed at me to get out. I was sobbing, and through my blurry vision I fumbled with the handles on the door and flung them wide open. I didn't know the meaning of fear. I didn't know the meaning of horror, or dread—not until now.

And the most horrible sadness, that I have ever felt, filled me as I heard the doors slam behind me, and the Angel's monstrous voice, still screaming, through them. At the end of the corridor, I collapsed against a wall, squeezing my fingers into the wood and pressing my tear-blemished cheek against its surface. I could not seek the Angel for comfort. I could not talk to Father—I had failed him again. Speaking to God was useless—if His Angel was angry with me, undoubtedly He was as well. And Madame Giry would not understand, and Meg couldn't know.

I was alone, with only the threat of an elusive Opera Ghost to witness my anguish.