Letter 15 - The Enchanted Violin

Red and gold and yellow danced across her eyes in warm patches, and she could sense the cool shadows of tree branches when the golds turned to black and back again. There was a rattling, thumping sensation all through her, but the sun on her face was delicious, a memory of something sweet she had only just forgotten.

"Miss?"

What had she been dreaming? She saw flashes, snippets, darting back to different corners of her mind. Something…

"Miss?"

She saw herself, she thought, running through a sunlit somewhere, and there was someone with her. Her father? Yes, but not the whole time. The man had changed...once, twice, more a feeling than an actual face.

"Miss, the train is deboarding. We've arrived at our destination."

Christine sat up with a startled inhale, causing the puzzled car attendant to jerk away from her.

"I'm so sorry, I didn't realize we'd stopped." Christine rubbed at her tired eyes for a moment before gathering her bags.

"Not to worry, miss. It happens all the time." She gently herded Christine off the train car. "If you checked any bags, just follow the arrows to baggage claim, and enjoy your stay in Port Jarvis."

Christine hopped onto the platform, her hastily gathered bags slipping down her arms to drop on the ground. Her feet felt rooted to the spot as she glanced at the familiar lines of the station roof. The way the sun caught the light, the sound of a seagull in the distance, the smell of the waves on the breeze. The sun was warm on her skin, and it felt like it always did, all those other times she and her dad, Mamma, and the professor had disembarked, climbing onto this same platform, too many bags between them, ready for a summer by the sea.

But then the wind picked back up, the sun hid itself behind a cloud, and it was October again, and she was alone. She swung her backpack onto her shoulder and grabbed her small duffel bag by the handle before heading to the doors. The lobby was mostly empty, as she suspected it would be this late in the year. Christine made her way through the front doors and settled onto the bench to wait for the town trolley. The four of them had always taken the trolley, even though the Professor had always insisted that a taxi would be more practical. Mamma would insist back that the trolley was "part of the experience." The "experience" included getting off at the last trolley stop and hiking up the sloped street to the summer house with all their bags in hand, but it's what they did, year after year.

She sat on the bench for a long time, watching the undecided sky as clouds gathered and dispersed overhead, slipping from blue to gray to blue again. There was a little sign on the other end of the platform that had the trolly schedule, but she'd read it so many times that she knew it by heart. The trolley came every 15 minutes.

The last time she'd been here, she and Mamma hadn't taken the trolley. It had been raining, and they were staying at a hotel since the house was being sold. They had taken a taxi up the steeply sloped street, and the only thing they had brought with them had been her father' ashes.

There had been a really stupid mix-up at the funeral home. Christine tried not to think about it very often. They had purchased a plot near the Professor, near where Mamma wanted to be buried as well. The day of the funeral, they arrived at the church and Christine was surprised to see the casket closed. She couldn't tell if she was relieved or not. When she could actually think instead of cry, her mind had fixated on it. Did she want to see her father's body? Would he look like he was sleeping? Would he look like an empty shell, the way she'd read dead bodies looked? Did she want to see it? Could she handle it? Would it bring closure, like people said?

She never got to choose. As she and Mamma made their way up the aisle of the church to the front pew, the funeral home director had detached himself from the conversation he'd been having with the pastor and presented them with a decorative urn.

"What's this?" Christine had asked as she accepted the urn.

"Your father's ashes?" The funeral director seemed confused by the question.

"His...his ashes? He wasn't...we were–" she felt the pew beneath her before she realized she had sat down. "Then why is there a casket?"

"We always...for the memorial portion we offer a casket if desired?" He casts a frantic look between Christine and Mamma Valerius.

"Let's discuss this over there," Mamma said, before kneeling in front of Christine. "Sweetie, you just sit right here, ok? I'll be right back."

Christine had barely heard, staring at the urn in her hands. Everything. All of it. Every song he had played, every laugh, every story he had ever told her was dust in her hands. She could hear Mamma's voice raise in frustration every now and then, but she couldn't decipher anything.

Now that she couldn't see him, it was all that she wanted.

The funeral eventually began, people told stories about her father, she had somehow managed to say something as well, but everything felt sideways, left, and her thoughts seemed to ping off of each other.

"Miss Daae," the funeral director said after the service. "I cannot begin to apologize for the pain this must have caused. I called the office, and there was a clerical error during the...in any case, we are prepared to reimburse you for the majority of the funeral costs. I know that will likely not bring much comfort at this time, so we are also prepared to offer a small memorial plot."

Words, at that moment, seemed impossible, and after a moment, Mamma had put her arm around Christine's shoulder.

"A memorial plot?" Mamma said.

"As we understand it, you have already purchased the plot next to your late husband, Mrs. Valerius. In light of this unfortunate error, we are prepared to offer a small plaque to be placed between your two plots, and a small memorial box could be buried instead. Some token you would like to symbolically lay to rest, like a cherished volume, or perhaps…" the man glanced around the memorial set at the front of the church. There was a large picture of Gustave Daae before he had gotten sick, the empty casket, and his violin propped in front of a large bouquet of flowers. "Your father's violin."

"I don't think she would want–" Mamma began, but Christine cut her off.

"That's fine."

"Christine, think about this–"

"Bury the violin." Christine clutched the urn to her chest as she walked toward the exit. "No one else should play it anyway."

The sky above her continued to turn from blue to gray and back again, and she shook herself out of her reverie. Far more than 15 minutes had passed. She crossed to the sign and saw the schedule was the same. She hoisted her bags onto her shoulders and made her way back inside.

"Excuse me," she said to the man at the help desk. "I've been waiting for the trolley for a while and it hasn't shown up. Do you know–"

"Trolley's shut down for the season, ma'am," he said, not looking up from his computer. In the reflection on his glasses she could see he was playing computer solitaire. "The rental car desk is across the room."

"Oh, I don't need–" she started, but the man did a tiny fist pump and she saw the cards scattering in the reflection. After a moment he looked up, as if only just realizing she was still there.

"Or I can call a cab for you?"

"Thanks, yeah. That'd be great."

The ride to the Setting Sun Inn was quiet, neither she nor the driver interested in speaking. The familiar slope of her old street caught her eye, and she turned her head to keep it in view. The lobby of the hotel was empty save for the clerk at the check-in counter, and the sound of a small fountain bubbling in the corner seemed to echo through the space. She got her key without incident and barely listened as the clerk told her about check-out times and continental breakfast.

Her room was small but clean, and she dropped her bags with a grateful sigh and flopped onto the bed. She patted blindly next to her until she felt the strap of her backpack, pulled it close and fished her phone out of the pocket. She sent a quick text to Mamma, letting her know she'd arrived. There were no messages from Raoul. He had said he would come, but she didn't know if she wanted him too. It was the casket all over again. She wanted to see him, missed him a little even, but the Angel's insistence that she invite him made the whole thing feel off. A move in a game, but she didn't know the rules.

She pushed herself up into a sitting position and glanced out the window. There was still plenty of daylight. There were several places she wanted to see, places that she and her father had loved, and not much time to see them. She wasn't sure where to begin. What she wanted most was to hear the Angel play, but that wasn't until the next night. She stared out the window, still and silent, unable to decide.

She grabbed her phone, wallet, and room key and began walking. She took rambling paths through the sidewalks, cataloging the shops, the ice cream store, and other places. Aside from the funeral, they hadn't been back to Port Jarvis in years, ever since her dad got sick.

She'd regretted burying the violin the second the first shovel of dirt fell on the box, but at that point, what was she supposed to do? No, she hadn't wanted anyone else to play it, but not having it, not being able to see and touch it...she'd wanted to scream. Her thoughts skittered toward the future, any children she might have would never get to see her father's most prized possession, and if they loved the violin, they'd never get to play it.

She'd tried to speak, to say stop, but no words came out, and the hole was filled, and the earth packed down.

She didn't mind the thought of the Angel playing the violin, though. That was different. She didn't know how he would do it, but it was the sound she most longed to hear.

She found herself where she knew she would, at the edge of the water, staring in the sea. The sky had decided, and everything was gray.

o...oOo...o

Traveling was always so tedious. The fake IDs, the various accoutrements needed for disguise, the interacting with the populace.

Or the police.

That was if he was traveling legally. If he really wanted to avoid being seen, he could always find his way into a luggage compartment on the train, but then the quarters were so cramped, it was terribly noisy, and there was, of course, the risk that some law-abiding luggage lackey would find him.

Leaving him with a mess to deal with in his tunnels upon his return.

No, no. This time he would go properly, in a seat on the train. It was late, in the day and the year, and very few people would be heading up the coast. He'd get some work done, the train would be relatively empty. It would all be...quite...comfortable.

The access door creaked as he opened it, and the skin of his face prickled uncomfortably in the warning breeze. He bounced on his toes for a moment, before shooting through the door. There was a delicate art he'd perfected from years on dancing with the subway cars. His feet hit the gritty floor of the tracks in a perfectly straight line as he avoided the charged rails. He always considered it a race between himself and the lights of the train, and so far, he'd always won.

Too early, you risked being noticed. Too late, you risked being dead.

He reached an access ladder and swung himself onto the subway platform. Moments later, the train roared past him, and he shuffled, unobserved, into an empty corner of the last car and grabbed a hand strap.

He hadn't expected this gnawing discomfort at the thought of the girl being so far away.

She was already out of the city, having left on the 10 AM train. In broad daylight. In the crowds.

Of course, every now and then, he found it necessary to be outside in the daylight. Some business had to be conducted during business hours. But people were more apt to notice little...details during that part of the day.

Details he would much rather they not notice.

He'd just spent the week researching Port Jarvis. Maps, businesses, etc. Very popular in the summer months, but this time of year, though the train would be crowded at the beginning of the journey, the number of travelers would dwindle as it drew closer to the little sea-side town.

She might not notice the strange man in the dark coat amongst a sea of strangers, but she'd notice him if he was the only other person in the car.

The subway doors hissed open, and followed the crowd into Grand Central, twelve hours after she'd left, to avoid the hassle and enjoy the relative comfort of a far emptier train.

At 9:55 AM, this had seemed like an extremely sensible plan. At 10:05 AM, he felt differently.

He liked...knowing where she was. He liked being able to see her throughout the day. If he was busy composing or working in a different part of the opera, there was his phone and his extensive collection of surveillance equipment. He liked the way she looked when she thought she was alone.

There was something very calming about watching her.

It was like sitting near the clear little spring in the backyard, when he'd been allowed outside. He could see every little rock and pebble, nothing to hide, nothing to conceal, just constant, gentle motion and a soothing sound.

No. Stop. He was not going to think about the spring or the backyard.

"Two for Port Jarvis," he said, making his voice low and scratchy. The clerk at the desk barely looked at him as she rang him up, and he preferred it that way. He got too many searching looks when he used his normal voice. The double takes. Trying to pinpoint what was off, because they could always tell there was something.

He took his ticket, found his seat, and placed his bag in the seat next to him. A very necessary buffer.

He slipped his laptop out of the bag and turned on his portable router. Logging into the onboard wifi would leave a trail, and he wasn't interested in that. The train pulled out of the station, and for the first hour or so he spent his time as he'd planned to, sorting out details for the next opera, placing orders on the manager's account, sending Carlotta another offer of interest for a role on Broadway.

Then it was a matter of planning for the immediate future. He'd brought his own violin, of course, but there was something poetic about actually playing for her on her father's violin. She'd mentioned something briefly to him about the violin and the funeral, but she'd said so little about it and then she'd started fiddling with her hair in a most distracting way.

The town newspaper's website was, unsurprisingly, an absolute disaster. It was clearly programmed before Y2K and left to rot as the new millennium galloped past it. Their "Archive" consisted of the five most recent issues, so the first thing he would have to do upon arriving was break into the town library to see what the mix-up was.

Or the morgue.

Either would get him what he needed.

He leaned back in his seat and rubbed his eyes against the blue glare of the screen before shutting the lid. The train was dark, with only a handful of passengers traveling this far out of town at this time. Their overhead lights dotted the car like distant street lamps on a lonely road, and in the low light, he flicked his eyes for just a moment at his reflection in the black window.

The glass was dirty, and his dim reflection almost seemed normal.

Now this, this version of him, was someone who could stand beside her and not be ashamed.

He could almost picture her reflection there too, in the seat next to his. Their arms close on the shared armrest. She would yawn, tired at the lateness of the hour, and without fear or trepidation she would rest her head on his shoulder. He would shift, gently, to wrap his arm around her, and she would snuggle close to him, her own arm wrapped around his waist. She would know that she was safe with him. That he would never hurt her. And he would sing to her, softly, as he ran his fingers through her silken hair.

The train rumbled on into the night.

o...oOo...o

The next morning Christine wrote out a list of things she wanted to do. Breakfast at the once favorite cafe, a quick browse through the music store downtown. The path from the cabin to the pier. She told herself it would give her closure, witnessing the absence of her father in the places they had loved.

But it didn't feel like closure.

It felt like picking at old wounds.

It felt like ripping scabs off too soon but still being surprised by the blood.

The cafe was louder than she remembered, colder too. She sat shivering in a booth by the window, nursing a cup of rapidly cooling tea. An older couple slid into a booth near hers and started removing their jackets, and she realized the cafe hadn't changed. It was simply almost winter.

She shouldn't have come.

She watched the couple for a while, her food arriving and congealing as she pushed the eggs around the plate. Nibbled at the edges of her toast. The couple in front of her ordered and ate and talked and she missed Mamma.

"Marjorie, hi!" A tuft of tight curls in a puffy, mint colored vest brushed past Christine and stopped by the couple. The woman smelled like old perfume."Did you hear about the break-in downtown?"

The couple responded, but Christine didn't bother listening. Whatever illusion she'd been lost in was broken. She dropped a few bills on the table and left.

The wind outside cut sideways, slicing straight through her coat, and the previous day's clouds still roiled above, threatening rain. Ducking her head and pulling her coat tighter, she made her way up the slight hill and slipped into the music store. The bell jangled above her head, and the reedy looking man behind the counter glanced up.

"Christine! Little Chrissy Daae! What a surprise," his gait was slow and a little stilted as he made his careful way toward her. "We missed seeing you the last few years."

"Hi Jerry," Christine said as he folded her into a hug. He smelled like old paper and woodwind key oil, and his hands felt fragile as he took hers. "It was, you know…"

She shrugged. He nodded. He did know.

"C'mere," he shuffled back toward the counter and slipped into the back room. She tapped her fingers along the glass of the counter, looking at the familiar covers of the collectible folios on display against the faded red velvet. Jerry returned carrying a brown accordion folder.

"I set these aside for you and your dad earlier. Up here," he tapped a finger against his temple, "not what it used to be. I kept forgetting to put them back."

Slowly, Christine pulled the folder towards her and opened it. Sheet music. Scores from movies, old musicals. A few concertos. In the back, an ancient looking leather bound volume. Her fingers found the ribbon marker and opened the book. Bach's Gigue. Her father's favorite. She gasped, a tiny sound, and looked up at him.

Jerry's rheumy were wet. "Take it. Take the lot. On the house."

"Jerry, I can't…" her fingers drifted over the notes, hearing them in a distant memory. "This one especially, it's too valuable."

"It's just old. Not even a first edition. Here," He took the folder from her, scooped the music and book into it, slipped the lot into a bag and held it out to her. "You can come back next summer and buy something expensive from me then."

He winked, and she couldn't help but laugh. She pressed a kiss to his wrinkled cheek.

"Thank you, Jerry."

He nodded and waved her away, settling back into his chair at the register. The door let out a parting jingle as she pushed it open.

"Chrissy!" She looked back at Jerry. His smile was sad, but sincere. "You're doing better than you think."

The roiling clouds looked ready to burst, and the early afternoon was nearly as dim as twilight. She pushed against the wind, through the empty downtown and past her hotel. She had just started up the steep hill to the cabin when fat raindrops started to fall.

She looked up, into the clouds, and closed her eyes against the drops. She could feel them, sliding down her temples and into her hair. Some were cold, but some were warm.

She wanted to rush into that rain. Run into the gray, into the mist, find that spot in the backyard where she liked to lie down and read, lift her face toward the sky, and wait until the rain washed even her away, but the sound of the rain on the paper bag in her hands wouldn't let her.

She looked over her shoulder, her hotel just a little ways down the hill, and back up again, where the mist curled gentle fingers over the steep cliff to the beach.

The Angel would be upset if she got sick.

Blinking the water from her eyes, she pushed her now sopping bangs off her forehead, slipped the bag of music under her jacket, and made her way back to the hotel, shivering.

o...oOo...o

His fingers twitched, a nervous little dance across the top of the box. He felt exposed. The dim, grey light creeping around the edges of the curtains felt it was searching for him, and he adjusted the material again.

It had been a simple enough matter to get the room next to hers, and the walls were thin. He'd arrived very late, as expected, and the tired night clerk had barely given him a second glance.

And then he'd slipped back out into the night through the back sliding glass door of the room, only returning as milky fingers of dawn creeped across the sky.

He'd fallen into a fitful sleep eventually, listening to the hum of her tv on the other side of the wall until too late in the night. She wasn't taking care of herself. She wasn't taking care of her voice. He'd waited hours and hours for her to go to sleep, almost too late for him to take care of what he needed to. And now she was out there in the cold, in the rain, probably not even wearing a scarf-

The shower in the next room turned on, and his shoulders loosened. She was back. He'd been stuck in the room ever since he'd woken sometime mid-morning, unable to leave, knowing that without the aid of shadows or the bustle and distraction of crowds, his disguise wouldn't hold up to much scrutiny.

His fingers, now steady, worked at the box, carefully pulling the nails out of the dusty polished wood. It was a small casket, intended for much sadder cargo, and the hinges creaked piteously as he pulled it open, thick clumps of dirt falling into the satin-lined interior. He lifted the violin out reverently. It was a beautiful thing, really. Well-crafted, and surprisingly well preserved, but it still in need of attention before it could play.

A year underground was a very long time.

The shower turned off, and after a few minutes he heard the muffled sounds of the tv. The hours passed, the rain subsided, and the sunlight dimming around the edge of the curtains as he cleaned and tightened and restored. He heard her pacing for a while, heard the muffled sound of her voice as she spoke on the phone. He couldn't make out every word, but he could hear enough that when he heard her leave the room and returned twenty minutes later, he knew she'd picked up dinner dinner. He couldn't tune the violin, not yet, not when there was a risk of her hearing. So when he finished the violin, he carefully placed it in the spare case he had brought with him, and waited.

When he heard the knock at her door, the only thing that surprised him was that it had taken the boy so long to arrive.

Night had long since fallen, and it was only a few hours until he was to meet her at her father's tomb. The boy's pompous voice was loud enough to cut through the walls, and when he heard her gentle murmurs in reply, he slid the sliding glass door open and stepped quietly on to the small balcony. Their rooms were on the second floor, but the building was almost flush with the hillside that the hotel had been cut into. The slope of the hill rose almost to meet the balcony's railing, providing a quick and easy entrance, should he need one, but even if the hill was gone and the balcony 30 stories in the air, it would not have stopped him from stepping over the gap and onto her balcony.

He pressed himself against the wall, into the shadows. Her curtains were partially closed, but he could easily see where they sat on the faded couch. Slowly, quietly, he reached over to the handle of the sliding door and gave it a tentative push.

It opened.

He eased it open an inch or so, just enough to hear them clearly.

"I didn't text you to make you come here and confess your feelings for me." She was fiddling with her hands, and the look in the boy's eyes set his teeth on edge.

"I couldn't leave you alone today. You know that. Why even text me then?"

Because I asked her to, he thought, because I wanted to see if she was lying to me about you, or just lying to herself.

She stammered out some response about childhood friendships and he had his answer. She wasn't lying. No to him, at least. He felt a twisting sort of feeling in his chest that settled like nausea in his gut. He didn't want to hear anymore. Quietly, he pulled the length of catgut he always carried with him (good for repairs and other...uses), looped it around the handle of the violin, and gently lowered the instrument onto the hillside. Once it was safely nestled in the grass below, he clambered over the railing, adjusted his balance, and lept. The grass was slick, and he slid a few feet before catching himself.

He could still hear snatches of her warm voice as he made his way to the cemetery.

o...oOo...o

The way Raoul was looking at her made Christine want to cry. It was a sad, wounded look, laced with kindness and frustration. It was her fault he felt like that. She was confusing him, she was confusing herself. She shouldn't have texted him, she should have stood up to the Angel, she should have said she wanted to be alone this weekend.

And now here Raoul was, his very presence asking her to admit all the things she wouldn't let herself acknowledge.

"Was that night in the dressing room the first time you recognized me?" His voice was hard, serious.

"No." She struggled for a moment, trying to figure out the best wording, but sighed and settled for the simple truth. "I saw you the day you were buying box seats for the opera, and I saw you a couple of times in your family's box and backstage."

"Then why did you lie? You know me, Christine. You know me just like I know you. I knew you recognized me," he shook his head, half speaking to himself, but when Christine failed to answer he snapped back to attention. "No answer? I can tell you why then. Because there was someone else in your dressing room that night, someone you didn't want to know about me...about us."

Christine huffed in annoyance, less with him than herself. Us, he'd said. Us? There was no Us, there could never be an Us. At least not for a good long while, only if and when the Angel moved on to his next student. By then, she was sure, Raoul would have moved on too. She had chosen the Angel, she was choosing to focus on music, and it hurt too much to consider what she might be missing.

"If there was someone in that dressing room that I didn't want to talk about my feelings with it was you, because I asked you to leave," she snapped, childishly.

"Yes, yes you did," he countered, just as childishly, "because you wanted to be with some other guy."

"What other guy?" Her question hung in the air for only a moment before the weight of his words finally hit her. "...another guy?"

"Yes, Christine, I heard you guys talking after I left. The guy you told 'I sing only for you.'"

Christine's ability to process things like words and phrases and earth-shattering revelations ground to a screeching halt.

She wasn't crazy.

"You were listening at the door?" Good. Yes, a question for clarity. That was what she needed. Clarity.

"Yes, because I love you, and I heard everything."

Choosing to glaze over that incredible revelation, Christine pushed on. Clarity. Clarity. That was all she was after. "You heard what?"

"I heard him ask," he said gently, sadly, as he took her hand, "if you loved him. And you…"

Her hand felt so right in his, but even now she could not risk angering the Angel. She pulled her hand away.

"What did you hear?"

"You told him you'd given him your soul, and he said that a soul was a beautiful thing. That no emperor had received so fair a gift and that angels wept."

Christine sat for a long moment, her mind racing. She wasn't crazy. The Angel was real. She knew it. She had known it. All along, she'd been right, and the little part of her that said she had cracked was wrong! Happiness, warm and syrup sweet, filled her.

"Raoul? I want to tell you something serious." She turned toward him, smiling. "Do you remember the stories my father used to tell? About the Angel of Music?"

"Yes, of course." He smiled back, sweet and eager. "They were my favorite."

"And do you remember that he used to say that when he was in heaven he would send the Angel to me?"

He smiled, laughed, but said nothing. She felt a little twinge of warning.

"He did it, Raoul. I've been visited by the Angel of Music."

"Oh I don't doubt that at all," he said, quick and careless.

"You don't? Then you understand?"

"Of course, no one can do what you did on that stage, no professor can teach it. You've heard the Angel of Music, Christine."

He said it the way you'd say "good job" or "congratulations." He said it like a platitude.

"Yes, in my dressing room." Slowly. Carefully. Driving the point home. Providing clarity. "That's where he gives me my daily lessons."

"In your dressing room?"

"Yes. That's where I've heard the Angel of Music." She smiled at him again, willing him to understand. "and I'm not the only one."

"Who else has heard it?"

"You did, Raoul!"

"Me, when did I hear it?"

"The night of the galal! When you were standing outside the door. You heard the Angel. That's who I was speaking to, and you heard him too." She trailed off and repeated it quietly to herself. "I can't believe you heard him too."

Raoul smiled, laughed, just as sweet and carefree as before, and the twinge of alarm repeated, echoed, doubled in sound.

"What are you laughing at?" Christine's stomach sank as she realized they were on very different pages. They weren't even reading the same book. "Do you think I'm lying? You think I'm just making it up? That I was talking to...some guy? Like that?"

"Well…" he laughed, and shrugged noncommittally. All the excitement, all that syrup sweet happiness drained out of her.

"You don't believe me," her voice hollow. She had just done the one thing she'd promised the Angel she'd never do, broken her word and told her biggest secret, and he didn't believe her. "We used to be such good friends...you loved my father's stories."

There was a buzzing in her ears and if Raoul was saying anything she couldn't hear him. "...and you loved my father. And now you're laughing at me?"

Raoul was looking at her now in a new way, an incredulous way. Pitying. She hated it. "I was the only one in the room. If you'd opened that door you would have seen."

"I did open the door, after you left, and you're right. No one was there."

"See? Well?"

"Christine," he said it tenderly, gently, the way you'd wake a sleepwalker. "I think someone might be messing with you."

"What?"

"I think someone might be messing with you," he insisted.

"I can't believe you," she stood up quickly, startling Raoul. "I can't believe you! You...you don't-"

"Christine–"

"You think I'm lying! and I...I think you should get out. I think you should go."

The way Raoul looked at her made her want to cry, as if he has a thousand things to say and no words with which to say them. So instead he left in silence.

A sick, sinking feeling settled low in her gut as the conversation replayed over and over in her mind, loose threads fluttering where she could not seem to reconcile what she thought she knew with what actually is.

Raoul did not believe her. He either thought she was crazy or stupid and she couldn't decide which was worse. Both were hours ticked on, and she clung to the simple promise of midnight and the sound of her father's violin. She made her way out of the hotel and up the dark, empty street. Mist was rolling in from the sea, and a street lamp flickered in the distance.

The Angel would not disappoint her.

o...oOo...o

A thick blanket of mist churned over the wet grass off the cemetery, little hills like islands broke through the damp, swirling eddies here and there, tombstones breaching the smoking waves. Lamps were scattered across the open expanse, their glow fractured by the bare branches of the trees, but it was dark where he crouched.

He had made sure of that.

The thick mist was a welcome surprise, though it thinned and scattered in the cold breeze that rolled up the hill from the sea. He'd been very careful last evening to peel back the turf in a clean layer, and it was difficult to see the ground had been disturbed, but if the mist helped conceal his tampering, he was glad.

Once he'd made it to the cemetery, he had tuned the instrument, and played a little bit, getting to know the instrument, allowing it to know him.

It made him nervous in a way, holding it, playing it. He felt bashful, like a man meeting his sweetheart's father for the first time, and there was a brief stretch where the strings seemed too tight and the sound was cold. But the violin warmed to him the way all instruments did. Her father had been a man of music. Erik was a man of music. In that way, he knew, they understood each other.

He saw her then. Her face was pale in the moonlight, pinched in thought. She walked distractedly, her arms folded tight against the chill of the evening. His mask kept his face warm, but he flexed his finger to keep them from getting stiff. He looked at his watch. 11:58. He was concealed behind a small mausoleum a few plots down from where she stood gazing at her father's tombstone. He decided the Angel would be punctual, and let the minutes pass in simply watching her.

She looked so cold, cold and alone, and that exquisite, familiar sorrow seemed to perfume the air. He longed to leave his hiding place, to go to her, tuck her head beneath his chin and hold her until she was warm again.

She knelt onto the wet grass, one hand perilously close to where his spade had cut into the earth, the other hand tracing the words on the plaque.

Gustave Daae

Beloved Father, Husband, and Friend

1972 - 2013

She looked up, her gaze searching, and he knew she was listening for him. His watch read midnight, and he settled the violin on his shoulder. He held the bow just above the strings, admiring the way the distant lamps gilded her face with tiny sheens of gold.

And then he saw him.

The boy.

A flutter of movement at first, but there he was. Hidden behind a tree, watching the girl. Watching her. Watching Erik's Christine. The wood of the bow bit into his fingers and his jaw began to ache. That stupid, simpering, idiotic– that he would weasel his way here, into this–

Christine's face began to look anxious, her gaze more frantic. Her fingers dug into the grass, tight fists, and he saw a sliver of dark earth as the loose sod shifted. He swallowed back as much of the acid green churning as he could and focused solely on her face. Her eyes. Her.

Then he began to play.

The note came out wrong at first, stilted, a little sour, but she didn't seem to notice. He focused on the relief that spread across her features, the quiet joy. Joy for him. She has missed him. Needed him, and the notes came out more sweetly still. Unbidden, his mind started calculating what steps would be needed to scoop her up and spirit her away right now. They were so far from his home, but he could do it, he knew he could. Maybe once they were home he could give her the violin, as a gift. It made more sense for them to be together, to spend all their time perfecting her voice, no distractions, no impertinent pretty boys. Only music. He could see it now, the two of them, her standing close to him, one hand on his shoulder as he sat at the piano, pointing out a note or two for her to focus on. And sunlight streamed through the windows-

The boy shifted by the tree and the sunlight disappeared. It was risky. Too risky, and he wasn't prepared for visitors. Not yet. Christine had raised her face to the sky, turning it silver in the moonlight, silvery with little gildings of gold.

The song began to wind to a close.

"Christine?" The idiot boy called to her quietly as he stepped from his hiding spot. "Chris?"

The song dwindled and died with one final, languorous note, and she tilted her head back towards the earth. Her brow was smooth, and a small, happy smile played about her lips. The wall of the mausoleum was cool against his temple as he rested his head against the smooth stone, the violin and bow hanging limply at his sides. He wanted to watch as she seemed to shake herself more awake, just as distracted as when she arrived, thought the perfume of her melancholy had dissipated. He wanted to follow her as she drifted back towards the hotel, make sure she made it back safe, but that insufferable boy kept distracting him.

Christine made her way out the far gate, not looking behind her. The boy called out to her, softly, but she didn't seem to hear. Soon, the mist and shadows swallowed her details, swallowed her faded figure, and then swallowed her. He and the boy both stared at the swirl of mist where she had been for a long moment and then both turned their attention to each other.

More accurately, he began to study the boy from where he was hidden, and the boy tried to find the source of the music. The more Erik saw of him, the more he despised. Pompous, rich, and perfect Raoul de Chagny. The sop was peeking behind the headstones now, clearly looking for a speaker of some sort. The wood of the violin and bow bit into his hands.

The mausoleum he skulked behind was a macabre thing. Smooth marble walls on three sides, the gothic arch of the roof rising from an intricate façade of pale, carved skulls that appeared to be stacked in a messy heap almost as high as his hip. The boy drew closer, and Erik crouched by the stone skulls, pulling his mask off quickly and settling his chin on the top of the pile. The flash of the bow as he did so was quick, but the idiot boy saw it out of the corner of his eye and turned to face the mausoleum.

A sort of giddiness passed through him as Raoul took a few hesitant steps, peering deeply at the shadows. He stayed very still, the bite of the violin and bow forgotten. Very still, very still, and the idiot boy got closer and closer, and he could see the whites around the boy's blue eyes and then he moved his head.

Just a little.

A quick little twitch to one side, and the frightened little coward did exactly as he expected and stumbled back in surprise. He waited...waited as the boy recovered. He could practically read the simple thoughts as they ran across the boy's face one by one. Run. Run. Stay. Christine. Stay. Search. He knew it could go one of two ways, the boy would leave or the boy would find him, and he didn't know which he wanted more. Raoul grew closer, closer, and that giddy feeling popped and bubbled, yellow, sharp. Closer, closer, and then he moved.

There was a great cracking sound, wood on stone, the boy screamed, and Erik darted towards him, around him, the boy spun and struck out, trying to land either eyes or a blow on his shadowy figure, but Erik was too quick. The boy stumbled, fell, and Erik made to flee, but the simpering sop grabbed a hold of his long coat. Erik turned and glared down at him, and in that moment the fear dripping off the boy turned the popping, yellow giddiness into sweet satisfaction.

He grabbed the fabric of his coat and yanked it with all his strength, the momentum of the pull smacking the boy's head into a tombstone, and the idiot was down.

Erik straightened and stared down at Raoul's prone form. The boy was alive, breathing regularly, and the wound on his head wasn't bleeding. He almost wanted to finish the job.

It was then he looked down at his hands.

Clutched in either hand were the shattered remains of Gustave Daae's violin.

"No," he whispered. It distressed him to see any instrument come to harm, but this one...this one…he scrambled back to his hiding place and saw the smooth curve of wood that once was the side of the violin, jagged at the edges, resting amongst more shards of polished wood. He'd forgotten he was holding them. He'd forgotten. He didn't mean to. He didn't mean to, Erik didn't mean to break this great good thing, and it would have made her so happy, it would have made her smile.

And he would be with her and she would be with him and he would hold the instrument out to her, whole and gleaming and lovely and she would take it from his hands and her eyes would be wet but her face would be happy, happy because of him, happy because he cared and she knew he cared and it was good but it was not good, it was bad and broken and not real and she did not know him, she did not know he existed, she never spared him a thought, she only knew about the Angel, cared about the Angel and if she came anywhere near him he knew she would break as the violin had, as everything did, because he was made up of death and every good, clean, bright and happy thing shriveled up and rotted away when he even so much as wished for it.

He tore the turf back up in great, grassy handfuls, his breath coming out in strangled sobs. The damp, cool earth coated his hands, clung beneath his nails, but he didn't stop until the hole was deep. He shoved the shattered remains into the hole.

By the time the shards were buried and the destroyed grass pressed in as best it could be, he was calm again. He brushed the dust from his long fingers and made his way back to the boy.

Still unconscious.

He knelt and felt for a pulse, which was strong. Raoul let out a small groan at the chill of his touch. Erik stood again, and looked around. The boy's phone laid nearby, and Erik picked it up.

It was recording.

He tapped the screen to stop the camera and watched a moment of the footage. How quaint. The brave little fool was going to try and prove to her that there was no Angel. He was on the point of deleting the footage, when he thought better of it.

Perhaps, if his new managers were to see what the Ghost could do to one of their patrons, they might be a bit more amenable to his requests.

He shoved the phone in his pocket. He could leave the boy. It didn't really matter, someone would find him. But that felt...unfinished. Lacking somehow. He looked around the cemetery for something suitable and smiled. The boy was heavy, but he had carried heavier. The lock was easy to pick, and his footsteps echoed quietly as he made his way past the empty pews.

Raoul de Chagny had wanted to find the Angel of Music. Very well. Let the boy think he succeeded. Milky moonlight shone through the stained glass window of a magnificent angel, and he deposited the boy in it's pool of light, slipped his mask on, and left the church.

The next morning, he didn't bother waiting for the later train. When she left the hotel early in the morning, he followed, disguise in place, the wind cool on his bare cheeks. He slipped through the shadows and boarded the train at the last moment through the rear door. She did not see him, but he saw her. He trailed her loosely as she made her way through the mid-morning crowd of Grand Central Station, onto the subway, off of the subway, and then he lost himself in the tunnels he knew so well, making his way back to the Opera.