The Palais Garnier house stood before her in miniature, sumptuous glory.
On the Phantasma stage, the Phantom of the Opera had created a mausoleum to the past. The gilding, the velvet, even the smell – talc and sandalwood – served to transport the audience to another place and time. And she could not shake the fear from her body: its memory deeply etched in her bones. The details may be fuzzy in her mind, but the body remembered. Did one kiss between them – passionate and desperate as it was, mean he had changed?
Did what he'd built mean it?
Singing at Phantasma was the culmination of every single one of her fears and anxieties. The past rose from the dead around her. Erik was, and ever would be the Opera's ghost.
Finally, Christine understood, though the thoughts did not form with great clarity. Perhaps the only thing that had changed since the disastrous evening of Don Juan Triumphant was her own feelings toward her fallen angel. Perhaps their kiss had only changed her irrevocably. Perhaps Erik had never turned to the light, she'd merely begun to walk toward his darkness.
Her thoughts unsettled her.
She may want him, but she did not want this.
Standing behind the heavy red velvet curtain, she looked out onto the slowly filling house. It would be full tonight, at least three hundred seats. There was only one real box, however. Up and to the right sat the lone feature. He would sit there. Lord and master of everything before him.
Christine new Erik was behind her before he spoke.
"What do you think of my theatre?" his breath warm against her bare neck. Her pulse leapt in her throat, deepening her response.
"It is certainly all yours."
Her music scattered from her mind when his bare fingers ghosted down her back. It was a touch he'd not meant her to feel, but it scorched her nonetheless. The frenzy about her ebbed away, until all she heard was her heavy breathing and his voice.
"What will you be singing tonight?"
"You should be in your box, Monsieur. The show is about to begin."
His voice whispered in her ear, "Will you look to Box Five and expect to see your precious, blonde Vicomte tonight? Here again in my theatre?" At the implication of her former fiancé Christine spun around to face her Phantom. She did not like and would not suffer Erik's spiteful references, no matter how cocky he delivered them. It was all too much.
"I only ever expected to see you in Box Five." More words filled her mind, but her voice failed her when she looked into his mismatched eyes. The longing and disbelief found in them made her chest hurt. He'd not expected her to answer him. In truth, he looked shocked that the statement had even left his lips. Now was the time to tell him, now was better. "So much was wrong before in Paris. Here, I wish to tell you the truth. Always. But you must listen now. Do not remind me of before. I don't like it."
His body had inched closer to hers, his hands just brushing against her own, as though he wished to clasp them tightly, but dared not touch her. Frustrated with his hesitancy, she took them and pressed their entwined hands in her skirts so no one could see. A stifled gasp escaped Erik's throat.
"Are you still angry about Paris?"
She's promised to me honest, "Yes. You killed men and burned my home." And left me.
He had some grace to look uncomfortable. "Do you want to be here?"
"Yes. Although, this is all a bit much."
"With me?" Christine began her answer –
"Christine!" Meg's voice cut through the heavy tension, popping whatever bubble they had created for themselves.
"This conversation is not over."
Releasing Erik's hands, she embraced her dear old friend turned stranger. Porter was behind her, his hands dancing along the ruffles of her skirts. It did not escape Porter – who believed himself the shrewdest man in three states – where Christine's hands had been moments prior.
Relief from the awkward reunion came swiftly in the form of the theatre's dimming lights, reminding its performers to begin. Meg released Christine with a final squeeze, "We must have lunch soon. I want to know how you came all the way here from Paris."
"Yes, of course." She replied.
"And dear Raoul, where is he? Not hear with you if I'm to believe the papers."
"The papers are right. He is not here with me."
After wanting to reconnect for so long, and Meg's utter avoidance, Christine was at a loss at her calculated welcome. Her heart ached with the knowing that she'd lost a friend forever, though she had no idea what she's done.
The Mistress of Ceremonies excused herself, with little notice of her devotee behind her. Christine let out a long breath at their fading figures. "At least he followed her," Erik whispered in her ear, "I would hate to invite that chauvinistic idiot into my box." She stifled her chortle.
Christine took the stage with a familiar confidence that only manifests after years of performing. It didn't matter where or when, a stage is a stage and she was always meant to be upon it. The initial shock of the building's furnishing had faded into the back of her mind, as had the memories it arose.
The house was full. A wide variety of faces filled the auditorium; similar in look, but almost wholly different from those who attended the Opera House. No hush accompanied her place on stage, no eager expectation, only shuttered curiosity. As though she was something utterly other than what they were used to.
Only Herbert smiled from the front row at her.
Careful to keep her eyes away from Mr. Y's box, Christine nodded to the maestro. Verdi's familiar melody filled the void before her. Her own notes rose above, echoing the sad melody of the strings. Soon it would turn fierce, soon it would turn unrelenting and the resounding echo of anticipation filled her with joy.
But joy filled no one else. Christine had barely begun the transition from the head of the aria when she knew she lost the audience. If she ever really had them. They were bored. They did not understand. They wanted their bawdy waltzes in three-four time.
She tried valiantly to regain their interest, but the shouts began and then the jeering, and she was finally forced to stop all together when a withered tomato flew through the air and landed against her shoulder. Its remnants splattered red across her chest and neck. More refuse threatened.
Shock registered through her body. This had never, in all her years, happened before. She could feel Erik pressing against her mind. She would not falter. She would not cry. Christine looked up to him and his eyes were burned with fury.
So Phantasma did not want opera then. She should have known. Herbert had tried to tell her as much as they chose selections for tonight. She had not listened. They wanted something modern, something new.
She could give them that.
And may her Phantom take mercy on her for it.
She waited for the rotten cabbage to pass her before lifting her hand. Steel hardened in her bones and, finally, a true hush went through the crowd. She looked to the maestro, "Please abdicate to Herbert for a song, good Sir." A long moment passed, the crowd hushed again, curious. It only took one look with Herbert for him to know her plan. He smiled.
She's yet to perfect it, but she doubted the audience would care, if they even noticed.
Christine's gaze roved the crowed, defiance flinting in her eyes. "And you once said, I wish you dead –" The crowd leaned in, "you sinner. I'll never be more than a wolf at your door for dinner."
Oh, with this strange melody she had them, "And if I see you run, like a ghost in the town, you liar." She dared not look above, "I'll leave with your head, oh I'll leave you for dead, Sire." And the music began under her in haunting harmony.
.
I bit shorter of a chapter this week. I promise next week's will make up for it. ;)
If you are wondering about Christine's song, the lyrics are from "The Wolf" by PHILDEL. (If you take a listen, it has total Erik/Christine vibes.)
