A/N: Since some of you requested for me to post early, here is the new chapter one day early! In return, please leave me nice long reviews and suggestions on how you want the story to continue, hehe! New reviewers and readers are always welcome, so just pop by to say hi!
This chapter was a tough one to write, mainly because I had to insert new reasons for Erik to be angry with Raoul, since he quite obviously has no romantic intentions toward Christine. I hope I did okay.
Savannah White: It's a good thing Amelie is an understanding girl, hehehe.
Nikki1991: I like to think of the two managers as completely tone deaf and ignorant about music! It's interesting how you said you would like to see Amelie interfere, because I had actually written a few chapters more before posting chapter 31, and there is indeed an interference scene somewhere in the future.
Lydia the tygeropean: Why, what makes you think so!
Masked Man 2: I know, I don't like those types of Raoul either! But it's getting increasingly difficult to write Raoul and stay true to character- I don't know exactly how I want him to be. He's a kind, considerate young man, but also a little naive and ignorant, I think. After all, he was born into the aristocracy with a silver spoon in his mouth, so he wouldn't be expected to understand Erik's situation... but I just get the feeling he's going to get more and more overbearing as the chapters go. I hope not though!
Wild Concerto: Nobody touches Erik's box without his permission! -waves punjab- Teehee. And you're welcome! I like Raoul this way too, lol.
ADemigodPhanGirl: A new reviewer! Hello! What you said about their relationship is definitely true, but I'm sure Raoul will find some reason or another to hate Erik anyway... or at least I'm cracking my brain for ideas on how to write that, haha.
Thank you Wintermouse for the fav/follow! And now, on with the story!
Chapter 32: Meeting the Angel
Paris, 1896, after the show
Christine entered her room after the final curtain call of Hannibal, her heart still thudding erratically in her chest. The opera house had stood to applaud her, had cheered as she had taken her final bows. She had done it; she had succeeded in bringing the opera house down with her singing. Her arms ached with the weight of the heavy bouquets in them, and she sat down the flowers on a nearby table, poring through them and admiring their beauty.
And yet, for all their velvety petals and gorgeous colours, none of them could compare to praise from her Angel. She had to know what he had thought of her performance. "Angel? Are you there?"
"You have done well, Christine." And almost as though he had been waiting for her cue, that deep, masculine voice sounded, sending trills of pleasure through Christine.
"Angel!" She cried happily, looking around the room. "Angel, I did it. Did you hear them? Did you hear the applause? I was the star of the show!"
She beamed so happily, shone so brightly, that even Erik had to smile a little, hidden behind the large mirror in the prima donna's dressing room. "Yes child, I was there. I heard them sing your praises, and I reveled in your triumph as though it were mine."
"It was our triumph, Angel. I would never have done it without your guidance. We have succeeded." Her eyes were gleaming, both from delight and unshed tears of happiness. "Angel, we can only move forward from now on."
He laughed a little. "So eager for more, are we, Christine? Surely you cannot be greedy for more triumph?" And yet he exalted in her need for more, knew that she would be the very instrument that would bring them both success, and he the master musician who had wrought the finest music from her.
She nodded unabashedly. The night's success had left her brimming with newfound confidence. "Oh Angel, if only you could have experienced it with me—the shining lights, and then the soaring music, as my voice entwined with it… and then the final crash of the cymbals and the deafening applause from the audience. If only you could have felt it too! It was like nothing I had ever felt before, and I cannot wait to experience it again."
"I know, Christine. I felt it with you. I felt your triumph." Erik said gently. "And yet, we must not rest on our laurels. You are not prima donna yet, and I fear that you will not be for quite some time. Carlotta will be back to claim her position once the night's festivities is over, you can be sure of that. She fears the threat toward her position in the opera house, and she will not relinquish that seat easily. And when she returns, we must be prepared."
She was silent for a moment. "Angel," she began timidly.
"You may speak your mind, Christine," he said, almost jovially. "I am in a rather pleasant mood this evening, for things have turned out the way I planned."
"Angel, may I see you tonight?" Her voice was quiet. "I have so wished to see you, Angel, and I have done well at tonight's performance. Please say that you will reveal yourself to me!"
Erik was contemplative. He debated between turning her away, and taking the huge risk of revealing himself to her. If she were to be frightened away by him, all his plans would have come to naught. And yet—his heart clamoured for another person to know of his existence, for another person who would be willing to accept him as a normal man.
"Christine, if I show myself to you today, will you promise to keep what happens a secret?" His voice was hesitant and slow, and Christine could have leapt with joy at the hint of a possibility that she would be seeing her Angel tonight.
"Yes, I promise it! Angel, please let me see you!"
"I have almost finished composing my opera, the one that you are to sing once you become prima donna. Perhaps… perhaps we could run through a few songs?" Erik knew that his voice sounded hopeful, and he hated himself for that. He was meant to be the teacher, the master here, and yet he sounded like he was pleading with her. It brought to mind unpleasant memories of the gypsy camp.
Her eyes lighted up immediately, and she nodded her head fervently. "Yes, Angel. I would love to hear the songs! Can we—"
She never managed to finish her question, for the door was thrown open, and a young man strode in confidently. Erik narrowed his eyes. He had seen this very same man in his Box Five tonight, which could only mean that the young man was the new patron of the Palais Garnier. What is his reason for entering the prima donna's dressing room? Surely not to propose a dalliance between the two; a boy so young would not be so bold as to make such a proposition. And yet Erik could not be sure; he knew of the many ballet rats who had found themselves rich, willing patrons, part of the gentility, who lavished them with gifts and flowers.
Behind the mirror, Erik seethed as he watched the young man speak of a time shared with Christine when they were children. He was wasting Erik's precious time; Erik wanted Christine to be rehearsing the new opera, singing his songs, such that he could be inspired to write more. And even worse—Erik was wasting precious time in which he could be making a secret visit to Amélie's dormitory, in the hopes of catching her alone, so that he could check on her safety, praise her dancing in tonight's production, and revel in tonight's triumph with her. Besides, Erik did not intend for Christine to have any form of distraction whatsoever. She could not be swayed from their end goal at any cost.
He turned his mind back to the conversation Christine was having with the young man, to hear that the young man intended to take Christine out for supper that very night. Christine had declined, but the young man had pushed his suit, refusing to accept her rejection. The door shut ominously behind the young man, settling in its frame with a finalizing click.
"So." Erik's voice was cold and harsh now, and filled with impatience. "The young man thinks he can cut short our time together, does he? And do you agree with him? It seems that we are not to have this time together to rehearse my new opera and work on your voice."
Christine leapt from her chair, twisting her hands together nervously. "Angel, please! I tried to say no; you know I promised you that I would give myself no distractions!"
"How dare he presume that you would be willing to give him the time of the day? How dare he waste my time with his foolish pleasantries?" Erik snarled angrily.
"Angel, please, do not be angry!" Christine cried out. "I still want to meet you, I still want to hear your songs."
Part of Erik felt flattered that despite the young man's attentions, Christine still wanted to meet her mysterious teacher. The other part of him was still angry that the young man had been so presumptuous as to take up their time together. Erik had many things to do, and not enough time to do them at all. Punish the young man later, take what you can get now!
"Then, child, you shall see me, and know my secrets at last." His voice was still cold, but less forbidding now. "Stand and look into the mirror, and you shall meet your teacher at last."
With a look of wonderment on her face, Christine walked slowly toward the large mirror gracing one wall of the room, wiping her palms on her dressing gown. No sooner had she stopped before the mirror when it swung open, revealing a secret tunnel behind the mirror.
Erik stood in the centre of that tunnel, his tall and imposing figure swathed in black, his fedora tilted rakishly across his head, and his mask gleaming in the darkness. He lifted his arm and extended one black gloved hand, the fingers long and elegant.
Christine stared at the hand, hesitant.
Erik made an impatient noise under his breath, and beckoned with his fingers. "Christine. Do you not want to meet your teacher at last?"
It took a lot of courage, but Christine finally reached out her hand to grasp his. She allowed herself to be led into the darkness, swallowing a lump of fear. She turned back, her eyes widening as the mirror swung close, extinguishing all light from the tunnel. She gasped, and flung a hand out wildly in the darkness.
"Careful, child. You are safe. Do not let go of my hand." Her Angel cautioned her, tugging on her hand to indicate to her to move forward. Christine hesitantly put one foot forward, almost expecting there to be a hole of some sort, that she would plunge into a never ending abyss.
Stop being such a scared little girl, Christine. She mentally berated herself, told herself to stay calm and to trust her teacher, but deep within, her heart kept beating erratically. It would not slow down, no matter how many deep, calming breaths she took.
For she had seen the white mask on her Angel's face as he stood in the doorway to the passageway, an imposing figure in black. The white mask had been juxtaposed sharply against all the darkness, and it had stood out, catching Christine's eye immediately. A white half mask? It cannot be.
Christine had seen that white mask before, or at least she thought she had seen it before, for the Opera Ghost moved too fast for any of them to be sure of what they had seen. The rumours about his appearance were just that, rumours, and nothing more.
My Angel is… possibly the Opera Ghost?
Christine whimpered. Will he hurt me?
He must have sensed her reluctance to keep moving, for he stopped suddenly, and she almost crashed into his back. Yes, Christine was quite certain now that her Angel was most definitely not a celestial being of any sort; after all, he had a corporeal form, and he was holding her hand at the moment in a loose grip.
"Christine, do not be afraid." His deep voice resonated through the passageway, calming her a little. "I am your teacher—I have no intention of harming you."
She did not say anything, but she nodded dumbly, and somehow, he must have seen her nod, because he continued moving then. Christine remembered vaguely that the Opera Ghost could most definitely see in the dark; after all, he was always roaming the dimly lit catwalks and corridors within the opera house.
The walk that he brought her on was all too long, all too frightening, and all too dark. Despite his reassurance that he would not hurt her, Christine could not keep herself from shaking slightly.
When he finally guided her into a place filled with light, Christine gasped. It was a large cavern dominated by a large, glassy lake. In the light, Christine could see her teacher clearly. There was no doubt about it—half of his face was covered by a pristine white mask. Christine did wonder why he wore that mask, wondered if he wore it to conceal his identity so that he could continue masquerading as a ghost. Who is this man, really?
He gestured toward a large boat resting on the shore, and Christine allowed him to guide her slowly into the boat. As he began to push the boat through the water with broad strokes of the pole, Christine sat back mutely and observed him.
How strange, that she had nothing to say to him now. She had often thought, daydreamed, about what she would say to her Angel when she first met him. She had rehearsed what she would say to him, giggled over her mushy statements, and swooned over what he might actually be like. But now, even though she had seen him in the flesh, she could not bring herself to say anything. Perhaps it was because of the niggling suspicion that he was the supposed spectre who had terrorized the opera house for years. Perhaps it was because Christine was dying to know why he wore that mask, and what was underneath it.
He led the boat through a maze of glorious candelabras rising through the water like monstrous statues, with light flickering everywhere. A magnificent portcullis rose before them, dripping with pearls of water and draped in robes of ivy and moss. It was a beautiful sight, and Christine would have been amazed, but her mind was too engrossed with her thoughts regarding the man before her. Who is he, really? He must be the Opera Ghost; there is no other explanation for it. But no, no! My teacher cannot be the Opera Ghost! My teacher is the Angel—no, but he is most definitely not an Angel. I'd suspected not from the start. Then what—?
When the boat bumped against the shore at last, and he leapt out of the boat to help her out, and then to guide her to his music room, he seemed almost excited. It was strange, Christine mused, to see a man who called himself an angel behave so…humanly.
"Would you like to hear the songs I have written for you to sing?" There were no pleasantries, nothing, just a quick getting down to business question, though he did sound excited. It seemed that he had only brought her down to sing, to teach. Christine nodded, moving forward toward the organ, where music scores were laid out neatly. She glanced at the one nearest to her.
"What's this one?"
He looked at it, and picked it up quickly. "Oh, pay that one no attention, Christine. I wrote it with someone in mind; it is not meant to be part of my magnum opus."
Christine was intrigued. He wrote the song for someone? Who does he know in this opera house, and who was this song written for? Now that she suspected that her teacher was the Opera Ghost, it was possible that he knew Madame Giry, for Madame Giry had always been the ghost's messenger. But it hardly seemed likely that he would be writing songs for Madame Giry; after all, Madame Giry was most probably older than him, and she was simply not the kind of person that musicians wrote songs about.
"May I hear it?" She asked cautiously.
He looked surprised, and a little reluctant, but he placed the scores upon the organ, and sat down to play. Christine took a place on a nearby couch. As the first chords of the song assaulted her ears, Christine closed her eyes in wonder. It sounded like heaven.
And when he opened his mouth to sing, and the deep timbre of his notes reached her senses, Christine was enthralled. It… well, it was even better than heaven. Christine had no words to describe it. She had heard her Angel sing before, through the wall, as he demonstrated the singing exercises and scales, but she had never heard him sing a proper song to her before, face to face. She allowed herself to relax and bask in the music. It was wondrous.
As the music closed in around her, the melodious notes bathing her in a stupor, Christine drifted off to sleep. She had been greatly fatigued after her draining performance as Elissa, and the soothing notes of the song lulled her into a peaceful, dreamless sleep.
When Erik lifted his hands from the organ and looked to where Christine was, he found her slumped against the wall, graceful even in sleep. Her lashes fluttered against her cheek, and her face looked young, and innocent. He sighed. The performance would have tired her out, and he had had her up at all hours of the night for the past week, rehearsing and practicing at an insane pace. Erik felt as though he had been overbearing in making her come down for yet more singing, but consoled himself with the fact that she had been rather eager to see him and to hear his music. He gathered her gently in his arms, careful not to jostle her out of her sleep, and walked to one of the spare bedrooms, placing her on the bed and drawing the covers over her.
"You did well today, Christine. And together, we will make both our dreams come true." He murmured softly to her sleeping form, before leaving the room.
XXXXX
Christine awoke to the sound of heavy, dissonant chords echoing from a nearby place. She blinked a few times, wondering why she could hear music in her dormitory room, and why her bed felt so soft, before realizing that she was not in her dormitory room at all. She sat up instantly, looking around the room.
It all came back in a flash—the performance, Raoul, meeting her Angel, listening to his music… and then… falling asleep?
Her Angel. No, the Opera Ghost. He was no angel.
She swallowed with difficulty. She had to ask him if it were true.
Christine got off the bed, her slippered feet padding across the smooth granite floor and lush carpets. She opened the door to the room, peeking out. The music was echoing from a door that she recognized as the music room, and slowly, she went forward and turned the doorknob. As she stood in the doorway, she could see him –it seemed strange to refer to him as an Angel now that she knew that he was not—seated at the organ, pressing on the keys and then scribbling furiously. The organ faced the doorway, turned slightly, so he did not see her as he was facing inward. She knocked on the open door to alert him of her presence.
He was so engrossed in his task that he had not even heard her opening the door, did not even notice her enter the room. From where she stood diagonally behind him, she could see his mask. The white mask sat on his face, taunting her, gleaming at her mockingly. Christine was so curious about it. She wanted to remove it, to see what hid beneath the mask. From what she could see, he was not an ugly man.
She stepped forward, made her way to his side softly. Dare I try?
Slowly, slowly, she reached her hand out. Almost there.
One inch closer, then another inch.
Her fingers were now hovering right beside the tie that kept the mask on his face. A little bit more.
Deftly, her small fingers caught the tie she yanked the mask off in one quick, fluid motion. Yes!
A/N: Cliffhanger! I'm so sorry I had to end this chapter on a suspenseful note, but it was getting a little too long. See you guys next week, on a Monday as usual! Please read/review/fav/follow/let me know what you think! xx hazel