A/N: Thank you for the reviews! :) Please note: it would be impossible to put everything we've found into this story, with regard to the hidden plot, but I'm trying to include as much as I can through narrative and thought and dialogue while attempting to keep the story structure believable to POV, – I do want to say, it is not a continuity error when, for example, Meg enters the room and I mention a lampstand of 3 flames and when she leaves, it becomes a lampstand with 4 flames – I am writing how they showed these things in the movie, as I think they are important to the HP… And now...
XXxXX
III
Five curtain calls and showers of roses later, once all final bows and curtsies of appreciation were given, Christine slipped away from the furor of celebration backstage and hurried to the chapel, with the hope that her Angel would meet her there.
With a slim wooden reed, she reached over to light it and the candle before her, blowing out the tongue of fire from the reed. She concentrated on the sole candle lit in the remaining cluster of them untouched by flame. Beneath its solitary brightness hung the small oval portrait of her dear Papa in his youth, when he had been a musician in the theatre orchestra. Above his head into the memorial plaque had been carved a depiction of the legendary crystal ring, the same ring that Madame Giry kept safe in her possession for Christine to have one day, when the time was right. Another tale of Papa's she had loved to hear…
"Brava, brava, bravissima!"
Upon hearing the beloved tenor voice that sung to her so sweet and low in praise, almost as a whisper, she lifted her eyes to the ceiling, her smile growing wide to know he had come to her at last.
x
In the corridors backstage, Meg had looked for her secretive friend for at least a quarter hour, having searched in a merry-go-round among the principal cast and chorus members that mingled in the dissolute gala. Around and around the same track, like a tireless horse on a carousel, again and again lifting up high on her toes, this time to peer over the thick cloud of pungent smoke from the smelly cigar that Monsieur Andre puffed on while he flirted with a brassy redhead.
On the landing above, Meg spotted two small boys, dressed as angels from the performance, still in costume and leaning against the rail to watch their betters indulge in celebratory decadence. Four wine bottles and four glasses stood between the children…and standing directly behind the angel on the left, she glimpsed in the shadows what appeared to be a dark, robed figure, still and silent...
Uncomfortable prickles raced over her scalp. She shivered and looked away, quickening her pace. Taking a dim corridor that twisted far from the raucous merriment, she ignored the couple in embrace who took advantage of the shadows, and soon arrived at the chapel entrance. With her hand on the wall, she leaned in slightly to peer, taking the stone steps that wound downward.
"Christine? Christine…?"
"Chrisssstinnnee…."
Christine gasped a little at the realization that her Angel was leaving, though he had only just arrived – why? Why was he cutting their time together so short, now that their shared aspiration had been wondrously fulfilled? His gentle voice speaking her name came as a bare echo, the shiver of a caress, fading on the last syllable. Before she could call out and beg him not to leave, having so much to tell him and so much to ask – Meg rounded the corner. Christine turned her startled attention to her friend, now understanding his swift departure. He never came near, nor did he remain during the rare times someone else was present.
Christine buried her disappointment deep and turned her head to regard Meg with a faint smile of welcome.
Her friend's lips curled upward in reply, though she shook her head with a hint of exasperation to find Christine there, and she flitted past a lampstand bearing three flames and over to where she knelt, sinking also to sit on her legs beside her. "Where in the world have you been hiding, really you were perfect." She reached over to touch her arm, and Christine's lips lifted in a wider smile, this one soft and mysterious. "I only wish I knew your secret, who is your great tutor?"
A troubled expression crossed her placid features as Christine regarded Meg, who'd always proven to be nothing but loyal. She didn't gossip with the other girls, and secrets shared between the two had remained steadfast. Christine considered the words she'd been instructed never to speak as a child; but nearly a decade had elapsed since those first days when she discovered her Angel, their combined dream now a reality, and everyone needed someone to confide in…Besides, Christine wasn't sure she could contain her excitement ad infinitum and not burst out with the truth in an unguarded moment. Would it really be so terrible to share?
"Meg, when your mother brought me here to live – whenever I'd come down here alone, to light a candle for my father – a voice, from above and in my dreams, he was always there. You see, when my father lay dying," she explained with remembered sadness, "he told me I would be protected by an Angel. An Angel of Music."
Meg's eyes widened more and more in shock with each sentence aired. "Christine, do you believe ... Do you think this spirit that your father spoke of is coaching you?"
Christine heard the gentle doubt in her words, the quiet concern that Christine lived within her imagination to believe in and hear fey voices, and her smile dimmed to realize Meg did not understand.
"Who else, Meg…? Who?"
Meg was without response, averting troubled eyes to the flagstones, and Christine's focus lifted to the painted angel on the wall. "Father once spoke of an angel," she sang wistfully, "I used to dream he'd appear. Now as I sing I can sense him, and I know he's here…"
As she continued to softly proclaim his unseen presence and untold genius, Meg tried to persuade her that what Christine experienced was only a whimsical dream and that she spoke in riddles, so unlike her. It didn't wound Christine's feelings that Meg didn't believe; it did sound like a tale created to send a sleepy child into peaceful slumber. But Christine knew it was real. She felt the bond with her Angel, warm and sure, and it was the strength of that bond mysteriously shared that kept her from speaking her inconstant belief that he was in fact genuine, not a true angel as she'd once been certain and had professed to Meg, but a flesh and blood man.
With her mind and heart lost in a bright cloud of excitement and anticipation, certainly it must be a trick of the eye to glance back as Meg herded her toward the stairs and see the angel in oils appear to have changed. Hair now long in length and brown of hue had replaced the short black locks, the lines softer, the gown whiter, the whole appearance of the painting more feminine and less masculine. Indeed, it seemed to resemble her countenance…
Meg tugged her arm, insistently pulling her from the chapel, and Christine blinked and turned away from peering over her shoulder – (an illusion of light and shadow, surely) – and moved with Meg past the lampstand of four flames and up the winding staircase.
To Christine's surprise, Meg's voice joined her in song as they pleaded for an angel to come…
With Meg still leading Christine by the hand, they turned down a narrow corridor flanked by tall, heavy curtains. The warm and contented feeling she'd found inside the chapel swiftly began to subside. A ruffle disturbed the mammoth curtain to their left, as if an unseen hand shook its edge, and statuesque shapes of shadows where props were stored could not only be perceived but felt beyond the curtain to their right.
"He's with me even now," Christine revealed, coming to a sudden halt.
Meg turned to look at her and lift her free hand to cover hers. "Your hands are cold…"
"All around me…" she continued in a nervous whisper.
"Your face, Christine, it's white!"
"It frightens me," she admitted.
Meg brought her hand beneath Christine's chin, gently forcing her to meet her reassuring gaze. "Don't be frightened..."
She urged Christine forward, to resume their trek backstage and leave the long, shadowed corridor behind.
At times, her sense of fulfillment at having her Angel near dwindled without cause to be supplanted by a curious dread she could not place, much less understand… as if an entity unknown encroached into her surroundings, one as invisible as her Angel, but nowhere near as welcome.
She had come to label and understand this entity as the Darkness. What she meant when she told Meg that he was with her and all around…
Perhaps this Darkness was even the dreaded Phantom.
Before she could bring up such a notion, Meg steered Christine down the corridor that led to the rose-pink dressing room, and all too soon, they came into the company of other members of cast and crew. No one approached Christine or spoke to her about her performance; they only stared with avid curiosity or ill-concealed envy.
She did not favor their wild, debauched parties, so common in the theatre, and often preferred to withdraw to some place peaceful to rest, to sing, to read. To meet with an unseen angel. She engaged in few social events and had fewer friends. Most of her peers considered her an oddity favored by the Girys who, since Christine had come to the Opera House to live, guarded her as if she was a baby chick trapped in a den amid sly foxes and ravenous wolves. Little had changed once she blossomed into a woman; indeed, Madame Giry's eyes only grew sharper, and Christine was astonished that she'd been able to sneak off to the chapel late in the night for her tri-weekly lessons, which altered to four lessons a week this past year.
His praises, rare though they were, were as treasured to her as gold was to Midas.
And as she walked with Meg past the cliques of merrymakers, Christine certainly had no wish to be subjected to any pretense of their praise and flattery, when the eyes that followed her told a different story.
In the distance she noticed Messieurs Gilles Andre and Richard Firmin, the latter holding a huge bouquet of dark pink lilies amid tall, drooping snowdrops, along with a sealed bottle of champagne. Both managers spoke to dignified guests, one of whom worked for a local newspaper – no doubt angling for a worthy story.
Having no wish to speak to anyone at present, Christine took the initiative this time and hurried Meg toward the dressing room before they could be spotted. Both girls were surprised to see Madame Giry waiting there. She nodded gravely to her daughter.
"Meg, I will speak with Christine alone."
She and Meg shared a curious glance – Why would Madame single her out? Was she not pleased with her performance? – but Meg dutifully left. Unfortunately, a swarm of admirers who had attended the performance rushed forward like a wave crashing against the opened door, which Madame immediately closed on their hopeful faces, shooing them away.
"No!" She growled a disgruntled breath. "No!" She forced the door inward and firmly shut it, nearly catching the shoe of one of the bolder men as he attempted to slip inside. She then turned to Christine, her impatience with the masses disintegrating into a weary smile.
"You did very well, my dear." She lifted a motherly hand to her cheek, then turned aside to pluck up a long stemmed rose that lay on a nearby table and handed it to Christine. "He is pleased with you."
Five small words, but the shock of what they contained rendered Christine speechless and she inhaled a wondering breath. He had never once sent her such a token, never sent her anything at all. Stunned eyes swept from Madame Giry to the be-ribboned rose clasped in one hand. And then the realization struck -
Madame must know her secret teacher and had seen him face-to-face! She must know her Angel!
No longer a childhood story or hopeful dream, the rose she held was evidence of his physical existence and more than that, more than that –
In the language of flowers prevalent of the era, this single rose bespoke of his desire for a secret meeting to take place between them, for a disclosure of the truth. And the velvet petals of bold crimson were a declaration of…
His passion? His desire? His…love?
Her breath faltered on its exhalation.
But the thin ribbon of shimmering satin tied around a thornless stem – what could that mean? Why would he wrap it in black, a color often associated with death and darkness?
So immersed was she in the rose and its meaning, she failed to notice Madame Giry cast a swift, insightful glance toward the floor-to-ceiling mirror before quietly slipping from the room.
x
Never taking her eyes from the exquisite blossom, Christine drifted to the vanity and sank slowly to the chair before it, her skirts billowing about her in a starburst-scattered cloud of white silk and tulle. Fingering the long ebony ribbon, a multitude of questions continued to swirl inside her mind.
How often had she begged him to come into her presence, to come out of the shadows and into the light? How often had she hoped he would tell her his story, so that she might truly know him?
Once, as a child, she had dreamed of a beautiful but strong, winged creature with long golden hair; and though of late she doubted such an image held any truth, she still yearned to see him!
Would tonight be the culmination of her dearest wish granted? Or had she misread the secret message of the lovely rose, their clandestine meeting destined to take place, as always, with him regrettably hidden from view?
Her brow furrowed in dismay, her manner now troubled.
"Little Lotte thought, am I fonder of dolls, or of goblins, or shoes ..."
At the lighthearted words spoken by a pleasant masculine voice, one she'd heard earlier that day when addressing the theatre company, she turned her head in welcome surprise and set the rose down on the dressing table with a smile.
"Raoul!"
He stood there, resplendent in his formal evening wear, the bouquet of winter lilies and snowdrops she had earlier seen Firmin carry now in Raoul's possession, along with the bottle of champagne. As if they were his to give, he set the flowers to one side and the champagne on the pink-clothed table near the door, a table filled with sentimental items a girl might treasure – three books of childhood tales, a wooden music box, a green and white vase filled with pink roses, with statuettes of two children at its base, and a red portrait fan bearing four ovals.
"…Or of riddles, of frocks," Raoul continued the stanza from the childhood story she knew so well and they had read to each other that one long-ago summer.
Christine thought of her own perfectly fitting frock and the riddle it presented before continuing with the next line.
"Those picnics in the attic…"
"Or of chocolates?"
Her smile grew wistful at the actual memory. "Father playing the violin…"
"As we read to one another dark stories of the North."
He knelt down before her, so that their eyes were at the same level; his still as bright and mirthful as the boy she'd known. She could almost visualize the bittersweet scene of their past, with her and Raoul as children, sitting on the floor, side by side, and thumbing through the fragile pages of a book of dark fairytales by Hans Christian Andersen, while Papa stood by the hearth and played his violin.
In recalling their past, what seemed a lost dream, her most favorite tale of all and what they'd been reciting prompted her to finish with, "No, 'What I loved best' Lotte said, 'Is when I'm asleep in my bed…'"
"And the Angel of Music sings songs in my head," together they sang in harmony, as they had when they were so very young. "The Angel of Music sings songs in my head…"
"You sang like an angel tonight," Raoul praised with a warm smile and leaned in to embrace her in greeting. Christine returned the heartfelt gesture, and when he pulled back, somehow the forbidden words tumbled from her lips, no doubt brought on by their playful recitation and all that happened in the chapel with Meg. At least, Raoul would understand.
"Father said 'when I'm in heaven, child, I will send the Angel of Music to you.' Well, Father is dead, Raoul." A trace of emotion colored her voice from missing her Papa, even after all these years. "And I have been visited by the Angel of Music."
A strange expression, something like nervous impatience swept across his handsome features. "Oh no doubt of it. And now – we go to supper," he said with a lift of his brows and decisive nod.
Christine stared after him in shock as he bounced back to his feet to turn and step down the two stairs, his stride long.
"No, Raoul. The Angel of Music is very strict!"
He swiftly turned. For the briefest moment his face went ugly with outrage, but in the next instant, the fierce expression was gone. Christine reasoned it must have been a trick of light and shadow and that she imagined his unfavorable reaction.
"I shan't keep you up late," he said smoothly with an affable smile, as if it were all some great joke.
"No Raoul!" Swiftly she rose to stand, watching in dismay as he strode with confidence to the door.
She simply could not go with him, not when she had plans to meet with her Angel!
He turned at the door. "You must change. I'll order my carriage. Two minutes, Little Lotte."
"Raoul wait!"
And just like that he brushed aside her refusal to accompany him, as if it was of no account, and exited the room, the door closing shut behind him. Well, he has certainly stepped into his role of Vicomte, she thought miserably, the nobles always ordering those beneath their station about, as if it was their privilege. And she supposed, as he was now a respected patron of this theatre, perhaps it was.
But tonight, she had other plans. And not even to reminisce with a long-estranged friend from her childhood would she cast them aside.
"Things have changed, Raoul," she said, staring at the closed door. "I have changed."
Christine snapped out of her daze with those soft-spoken words. She must change – and with all haste.
Rushing to stand behind the dressing screen, she carefully shed her beautiful Empress dress, intent to hurry to the chapel before Raoul's return. She had no wish to offer more excuses, and he would never understand what she couldn't tell him. She wished now she had never revealed what had been locked so long inside her heart and thanked Providence that he clearly thought her whole disclosure a flight of foolish fancy, as did Meg.
The excitement to see her Angel and the message of the brilliant red rose returned in a rush and colored her decision on what to wear for the encounter…
A bit brazen, her choice was still quite lovely, with its pure white lace and décor of pink rosettes running along the edge of the low-cut bodice, the skirt composed of the same delicate material that would hug her slender form, a slit traveling from hem to just past the knee. A wrapper of matching lace with long bell sleeves subdued the daring appearance of the ensemble; still, warmth heated her cheeks at her selection. She reasoned that he had seen her in a state of similar undress when she visited the chapel as a child in her night-rail. And as a woman, she'd often gone to her lessons in nothing but her long chemise, adding a wrapper for modesty sake, since the hour for her training was late, when most within the theatre slept. There were times after their secret tutorials, when exhaustion would cause her quite literally to fall into her cot and into dreams…
Tonight was special, and Christine wanted what she wore to reflect that. Perhaps, and she grew flustered to think it, if she had misread the message of his rose and he did not intend them to meet face to face, this then might be the lure to entice him from the shadows, at last.
XXxXX
Madame Giry stood half-concealed beyond the jutting wall and watched as the dark, silent figure extended his black gloved hand to twist the key in the lock of the door behind which Christine presently changed, trapping her within.
Of course Madame knew that he sensed her watch him, though he did not once look her way. And so, she could only wonder if he was within his own faculties or if something else presently controlled him. Both Maestro and Master saw and heard everything that took place within the Opera House, their spies in every nook and corner, above every catwalk and rafter, ready to report anything of interest that occurred inside the theatre.
A shiver of apprehension shuddered through Madame as she watched the progression of their plan unfold in all its dark glory.
Not for the first time, she felt she should speak and ask the Maestro to reconsider – to meet with Christine, yes, and end this deception; she was most assuredly in favor of that. But above-ground where it was safe; not hidden beneath the earth, lost within the maze of his home...
And not for the first time, she held her tongue, subservient to the unspoken order of silence, only to quietly slip away.
All over the Opera House, a sudden breath of chill wind swept from wall to wall, as if from an unseen giant, extinguishing every flame of candle, lamp, and footlight and casting the chambers into thick darkness. In the auditorium, the glow behind four curtains of red velvet wavered but held, surmounting the cloak of shadow that rapidly descended over the empty theatre.
Christine stepped from behind the tall screen in the dressing room, her attention caught up with tying the flimsy belt of her wrapper. A sudden waft and crackle of air brought her startled focus up to the nearby table to see the trio of candles in the candelabra there blow out, three of four portraits in the red fan giving off an eerie blue glow. Instantly, to her right, the multitude of flames from every candle on the vanity sputtered and extinguished in a sudden whoosh of air, and much to her puzzled horror, her image in the looking glass disappeared along with half the room, buried in impenetrable darkness.
With her breath caught somewhere in her throat, Christine whirled about and hurried to the door, but before she could turn the handle, a voice steeped in rage halted her panicked flight. A voice wanted and familiar…
But not like this.
"Insolent boy! This slave of fashion, basking in your glory. Ignorant fool! This brave young suitor, sharing in my triumph!"
Her Maestro and Angel was here! In this very chamber! He was not waiting in the chapel to greet her – and by his angry words he'd been present when the Vicomte visited and heard everything Christine said to him – everything she'd sworn never to share! She had foolishly basked in Raoul's praise, in the praises of the Girys and others, and in her girlish giddiness she'd let the secret kept for nearly a decade slip out not once, but twice. To Meg, to Raoul.
Oh, curse her wretched tongue!
She swallowed hard before daring to reply, her voice a mere tremor, "Angel, I hear you, speak, I listen, stay by my side, guide me…" She turned anxiously from the door, lifting her eyes to the ceiling, as if she might find him there. "Angel, my soul was weak, forgive me – enter at last, Master!"
An icy shiver trickled down the length of her spine with the hopeful, fearful utterance of her final words.
"Flattering child, you shall know me…" The voice she loved so well sang sweetly to her again. Her heart no longer quickened in fear, but with hope. "See why in shadow I hide. Look at your face in the mirror; I am there inside!"
His startling instruction brought her gaze fully around to the massive mirror. Her reflection had returned and to her astonishment, the many pink roses that earlier filled the chamber had turned snow white. Surely her eyes deceived in what truly did not exist, as illusions had seemed to trick her mind all evening…
Yet all of that paled in a moment, once she saw that not only her image was reflected in the mirror glass, but a man's face appeared and looked back at her! With the door directly behind, he could not be standing there, though that was what the image implied...
No…he was within the mirror!
How was that even possible?!
The candlelight in every holder had been extinguished. However, a peculiar, shimmering mist filled the room and produced a pale blue light to see. Drawn to him, with her heart beating in stunned anticipation and the strange mystique of it all, she almost wasn't aware that she slowly had begun to walk across the long rug, her eyes wide and mouth parted in wonder.
She was so overwhelmed, she could form no words with her lips and sung from her mind into his, as he'd taught her, "Angel of Music, guide and guardian, grant to me your glory…Angel of Music, hide no longer, Come to me, strange Angel…"
"I am your Angel of Music…" A deep whisper that sparked a trace of foreboding hid behind his beautiful song. "Come to me, Angel of Music…"
She inhaled a flustered breath of confusion, that he should think of her as what she had always considered him – and call her by that name.
Angel of Music…
Guardian and keeper…
A sudden rattling shook the door's handle behind her on the opposite side of the chamber, but Christine was barely aware and continued her slow, ethereal march, taking the first step up to the mirror.
"Whose is that voice?" the Vicomte called from outside the room "Who is that in there?"
"I am your Angel of Music…" Her Maestro's glorious tenor filled her ears with its sweet, sweet sound, beyond which the echo of a raspy whisper could still be heard.
"Christine!" Raoul cried, his voice growing farther and farther away. The door shook frantically in its framework. "Christine!"
Aware of nothing but the image of the mysterious man before her, Christine focused only on him. Her lids grew heavy, her body almost drugged as she slowly covered the distance through the glowing mist, closer and closer, as if entering a dream.
"Come to me Angel of Music," he continued to sing, so soft, so beguiling...
She could see now that what she'd thought an illusion from a distance was true - he wore a mask on the right side of his face, the rest of it cast in darkness. A half mask of bone-white…just like another being about whom she'd heard.
Dear God – her Angel was not only mortal, as she'd wondered, as she'd hoped, but he was, without doubt, the infamous Ghost – the Phantom of the Opera! Who was also... a man.
And yet… though all others did, she found that she did not fear him. His mesmeric eyes of deep green reassured and compelled her trust.
The reflective pane slid away without her realizing it disappeared – and there he stood in the flesh, standing so tall before her, half of him still hidden in shadow, his body concealed by a full-length cloak of black lined with shimmering gold.
She could scarcely breathe, scarcely think. When he stretched forth his hand in invitation, she hesitated in a moment's uncertainty, before slipping her fingers against the cool leather of his glove, allowing him to pull her beyond the mirror's gilded frame and into his world...
XXxXX