A/N: I'm not sure how many of my readers are writers, themselves, but perhaps you'll understand well that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry... I swear to you that I was in control of my characters when I started, but I seem to have been overthrown and they are telling their own story. And what else can a writer do but let their fingers obey orders? That said, try not to be too mad at me with the way this story is twisting. It's not my fault, I swear! :p
The company was gathered on stage to go over notes from their new directors concerning their opening night performance. The members of the corps de ballet were seated in various stretching positions on the floor off to one side with the chorus singers standing in a huddle near the opposite wing. The soloists and principal dancers were seated in chairs brought out specifically for them. Count Phillippe de Chagny, Sorelli's beau, had his arm draped across the back of her chair as she perched straight-backed beside him, and his younger brother, Raoul, was standing somewhere behind them. Phillippe was considering becoming an official patron and was invited to attend the post-show talk-through between the directors and their actors and production leaders.
A scream pierced the air, cutting Moncharmin off mid-sentence. The company started and stagehands took off in all directions, searching for the source of the blood-curdling cry while the girls clumped together, talking excitedly, blaming invisible ghosts.
"Stop that! There is no ghost!" Sorelli snapped at the younger girls in the corps.
"What's this about a ghost?" Phillipe asked her, Raoul hovering nearby.
"Oh, the stage machinist has them all in a tizzy about some ghost story he told them last week about a specter that has the head of a skeleton," Sorelli explained with an annoyed wave of her hand.
"You're all obsessed!" Moncharmin groaned. "Our predecessors said the same thing. I tell you, there is no such thing as ghosts!"
"Especially ones that have a penchant for demanding hefty paychecks," Richard added with a grumble.
A howl of suffering reverberated around them, one that had them ducking in place as if to protect themselves from a tangible being.
That bellow chased Ang all the way up the stairs until she finally tumbled onto the stage from behind a curtain leg, her legs giving way in her reckless haste and dumping her onto hands and knees. "Help! He's dead! He's dead!"
Raoul was closest and reeled about. A single fluid motion had him taking a knee at her side to gather her off the floor by her arms. "What happened, Miss? Who's dead?" Her head finally lifted, and familiarity struck him. "You?"
Ang's eyes fluttered as they focused on his face, quickly connecting him with the gentleman she'd met the night before, the one who caught her outside when she ran away after that man - now dead in the gallery below - struck her.
The directors shouldered their way through the crowd that had knotted around her. "What are you screaming about, girl?"
Ang yanked her focus back to the crisis at hand. "Down- downstairs," her voice trembled forth. "I went to get some more fabric from the store room under the stage, and I saw- I saw him, hanging, by- by the neck."
"Who are you talking about?"
"Who's dead?"
"It's the Ghost!"
"It's probably just a mannequin."
"Speak up, girl!"
Ang shook her head as the demands whirled around her. "I don't know his name. He… Last night, he… He was drunk, and… and he…"
Raoul studied her face as she scrabbled for an explanation. "I believe the man she speaks of accosted her last night. We bumped into each other as she was fleeing the theater. He slapped her across the face. You can see the bruise on her cheek," he recounted where Ang's words failed.
"But he's dead! He's dead, and it's my fault!" Ang covered her face with her hands and sobbed into them, her entire body trembling like a leaf in the wind.
Raoul draped an arm about her shoulders and led her to a chair, which he grabbed by the back and tugged closer before easing her down into it. His hands chaffed her arms. "Bring me a blanket and a glass of wine or brandy!"
Gus was stuck on the outside of the huddle, watching the viscount comfort his little red-headed friend, and his anger boiled. He slapped a few men on the backs of their shoulders. "With me," he commanded, and they fetched lanterns before he led the small procession down into the gallery below.
"You see! It is the ghost! I told you he was real!" a young ballerina wailed, clinging to the arm of one of her friends. The ballet madame seized that moment to round up the corps. She ushered them quickly into the wings and to the green rooms beyond, chiding them in harsh whispers for spreading so many ridiculous rumors and causing a panic, while the younger members protested and argued the validity of the stories.
Phillipe, meanwhile, gave the back of Raoul's jacket a light tug, and the younger man stood to face his older brother. "Why are you bothering with this girl?" Phillippe asked in a whisper. "Let the managers deal with her."
"Can't you see she's upset?" Raoul argued, his blue eyes narrowing. "I don't see anyone else stepping up to assist, do you? Sometimes I worry about your lack of empathy." Raoul shook off his brother's detaining hand and knelt before Ang once again, a repeat moment of the night before.
With a scoff, Phillippe took Sorelli's arm in his and led her away from the concerned knot of people. "Come, my dear. If there is any such mishap, I would prefer you not be nearby," he explained.
A blanket soon materialized and was passed inward through the crowd, and it was wound closely around Ang's quaking shoulders. A few moments later, a snifter of brandy appeared at Raoul's elbow, which he took and pressed to Ang's lips. She turned her face away.
"Please, Miss. Drink. It will hearten you," Raoul urged.
She'd started to oblige, but a door slammed open in the wings and she surged to her feet, holding the edges of the blanket in her fists. "Get Richard and Moncharmin down here!" a man's voice boomed over the din. "And call the police! It's Joseph Buquet! The girl was right - he's dead!"
The weight of the dead man's identity crashed over her. Bouquet! Joseph Buquet, dead! Hanged! Just like it was written. "No," she whimpered. Her ears rang, her vision tunneled. She felt faintness coming over her, but she fought against it. Pushing the blanket from her shoulders, she broke away from the gathered crowd and ran for the wings, throwing open the door to the stairs leading up to the heavens of the theater and beyond. Her blood roared in her ears but she pressed on, surging up flight after flight until she burst through the door that led to the roof. Her hands on her knees, she doubled over and gulped in deep breaths of air until the shakiness subsided a little. Standing to full height, she pressed her hands against her belly and forced her breathing to slow as she paced the flat expanse of the parapet which led to its domed top beyond. Statues of gods and patrons stood loftily above her, looking out over the city, silent, cold sentinels. Ang finally collapsed against the pedestal of one of the Pegasus and tipped her head back against the stone, her eyes closed against the impossible reality.
"Mon Ange."
Her eyes popped open and she scuffled away from the stone block, whipping her head about, her gaze searching for the masked face she knew to be nearby. "Where are you!? Show yourself!"
"I'm here," the voice purred from the shadows off to her left.
Ang faced it head on, her hands on her hips. "What did you do?!"
"Are you not pleased?" the voice asked from a different direction, and she spun around again.
"No! No, I'm not pleased! Why would you think that killing a person would please me?" she cried.
"He was going to defile you," came the simple, short answer, as if it were of no import.
"So? You don't murder a person for that! You don't murder a person for any reason!"
"You did not complain when I dispatched those men who nearly raped you on the streets," the voice sneered.
Ang gasped and recoiled, his words like a slap. "I didn't know you did! I never asked you to do anything like that! And what about Blanche; that was you, wasn't it?! You made the door swing closed on her hand! She could have lost her job!"
"She deserved it; she struck you."
"Erik, stop!" she pleaded, twisting this way and that, trying to pinpoint his location on the rooftop. "You can't do things like that. It's wrong!"
His figure, dark and foreboding, swept from seemingly nowhere and crowded her against the parapet wall, his gloved hands on either side of head, caging her in. His golden amber eyes flashed, crackling with angry passion. "I can do whatever I wish; no court would hold a ghost on trial," he spat.
The depths of her grey eyes swirled with unshed tears, her breath coming in frightened little gasps. "I wanted to trust you," she whispered.
"Trust has nothing to do with it," he growled.
"It has everything to do with it!"
The bang of a door announced the arrival of another person on the roof, and Erik practically vanished, faster than she ever imagined possible for a person, and she wondered if he wasn't part phantom after all.
"Miss? Are you up here?"
With a sigh, she stepped away from the walled edge to move in the direction of the access door and the new voice that had joined her. "Yes. I'm fine."
The well dressed gentleman from the stage, the very same as the one who had helped her the night before, stood looking around the rooftop curiously. "I thought you might need assistance."
Ang forced a smile. "Thank you, sir. That's very kind of you."
The man waved a hand nonchalantly. "Common courtesy, Miss…?"
"Oh, I'm Angelique Chanson. I'm just a seamstress here."
He smiled warmly and held his hand extended palm up to her. "Yes, I gathered as much when you said so last night. And there is no 'just' about it; without you, the company would go around the stage in their underclothes." His comment had the desired effect: she chuckled softly. "I'm Raoul, the Viscount de Chagny, at your service."
Ang tittered in disbelief. "Of course you are," she muttered. Raoul bowed low over her hand and she glanced around the roof nervously. With a small clear of her throat, she slid her hand from his fingers. "I should go. They'll wonder where I- -" She stopped suddenly and pinched her eyes closed. This isn't a play; it's real. "I mean, they probably have questions."
"Of course, Miss Chanson. Allow me," and with a smooth pivot, Raoul opened the door for her and ushered her through with a polite hand settled between her shoulders.
As they descended, Ang continued to feel eyes on her. "I'm thankful for your help, but really, you shouldn't trouble yourself with me."
"It's no trouble at all. Besides, you look as if you could use a friend."
"That may be true, but…"
"But, what, Miss?"
"You may regret it," she finally answered.
He chuckled as he followed her down the stairs. "Regret giving aid to a beautiful young woman? I rather doubt that."
"You needn't flatter me, sir," she deferred.
"There is no flattery, Miss. Just an honest opinion." Raoul hurried down the few remaining steps, bypassing her so he reached the stage door first. He set his palm to the door and pushed it open, then stood aside to let her pass.
She'd been about to thank him when she heard her name called loudly. Her head snapped up to see Gus rushing toward her, and she hurried forward and into his waiting arms, wrapping her own around his waist and burying her face against his chest. "Please tell me it isn't true, Gus! Please tell me that isn't Joseph Buquet down there!"
"I'm sorry, La Petit. I didn't know you and he were close," he murmured against her temple, his hands rubbing soothing circles across her back.
"We weren't. I only met him yesterday and he was… awful. But I didn't want to see him killed for it. Oh Gus, it's all my fault! I don't understand. I don't belong here; I'm not Christine!" She was turning into one of those simpering helpless women she had always despised, but she couldn't stop herself. It was all too overwhelming. She just wanted to go home!
After a moment spent consoling her, Gus edged away and guided her to one of the chairs still on the stage. "There's a detective here. He's downstairs in the gallery right now, but I'm sure he'll have some questions once he's finished with… well, anyway, you stay here." The blanket was taken up from the back of the chair and tucked around her. "I'll see about getting you something to drink."
The snifter of brandy had rematerialized, and Ang sipped at it slowly while she waited for the detective. Raoul had taken up a silent post in a chair which he'd dragged alongside, his blue eyes coolly regarding anyone in the company who came up with the intentions of bothering the small redhead.
Gus returned a short time later with a cup of steaming tea, though he pulled up short when he came upon the sight of the crystal glass cradled in her hands, with the viscount seated possessively beside her. His steps took him slowly toward her. "I thought you might like some tea, but apparently…"
"Oh, thank you!" Ang bent at the waist to carelessly set the alcohol under her chair before anxiously reaching for the teacup. She took a long sip and sighed happily, closing her eyes as the warm sweetness traveled down her throat. "Mmm, perfect, Gus. Just what I needed."
Unseen by Ang, Gus shot the viscount a smug little smile before he crouched before his friend and tucked an errant strand of copper behind her ear. "Are you all right?"
She nodded. "I just can't believe…" She couldn't tell him. She'd sort of explained her sudden appearance once, but she had a feeling Gus took it all as a joke, or that she was crazy. They'd had that ridiculous fight, and hadn't spoken about anything since then. "Gus, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to hurt your feelings by not trusting you. I just didn't want to see you get hurt. And now…" Her gaze slowly traveled to the door which led below the stage, and she shuddered.
"Hey now, you have nothing to worry about," Gus reassured as he wrapped her in another hug. "He's gone; he can't hurt you again. I'm just sorry that I didn't have a chance to beat him senseless first for what he did to you."
"It wasn't that big of a deal," she muttered, shrugging a shoulder.
"A real man never lays a violent hand upon a woman. Only cowards act in such a fiendish manner," Raoul ground out beside her.
Gus tipped his head in the direction of the fancily dressed dandy. "I have to agree with viscount, La Petit. A woman is meant to be protected and cherished by a man's hand, not hurt by it."
Raoul's blue eyes swept to the man kneeling before Angelique, weighing him. The stagehand's brown gaze swung in his direction then, as well, and the pair eyed one another before each deciding the other was acceptable. The viscount stuck his hand out first. "Raoul de Chagny."
"Gus Leroux."