A/N: Again, I'm sorry for the late update! I've been staying up past midnight working on assignments and homework most days, that I forget to post until it's way past 12! (It's already Tuesday for me here haha). This chapter marks the end of my pre-written chapters, which is kind of scary, wow. It means I'll have to work hard to churn out a lot more chapters in the next few weeks! Just a heads up though... this story will probably end soon... I can see the ending arriving O_O But boy will I be sad to see it end! -clings on forever- This chapter is just a quick, short chapter to tide us over until the next week!
Masked Man 2: Indeed, enter Don Juan Triumphant! And yes, it felt so heart-warming for me to write interactions between Nadir, Erik and Antoinette.
Savannah White: Hazard a guess! Haha.
Aria of Life: Why, thank you! I did enjoy writing that bit about masks... I like to inject my own personal opinion into the story, haha. And I'm glad you like the story so far (:
Nikki1991: Nadir+Erik conversations are always so fun to write! :D
HalloweenSpell: Thank you so much! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story so far, happy reading (: Hopefully the later chapters don't disappoint!
Chapter 46: Borrowed Time
Paris, 1898
It was late at night. Not late enough, perhaps, for the streets to be completely empty, no, but the streets were dark enough that most law-abiding citizens were already abed. The streetlamps flickered dimly. Some had already been extinguished by the wind. The watchman had been too lazy to light all of them as evening fell, so some remained dead and cold. In dark alleys, shadows of men loitered menacingly, palming knives absentmindedly while they played cards under the light of a single wax candle.
In that darkness, a lone figure walked the streets confidently. A dark coat billowed from his tall figure, hiding most of his body, and a black fedora concealed his face. He walked the night like Death itself.
The figure strolled, almost leisurely, to a stately house nearby the Palais Garnier, and lifted his gloved hand to knock twice upon the door.
There was a pause, and the door swung open quickly, almost as though the inhabitants of the house had been expecting the figure. Light from within the house streamed out, illuminating the figure.
"I bid you good evening, Eustache." The figure said quietly, in a very distinct and musical voice.
"We have been waiting for you, Erik. Come in quickly, now, the streets are cold." Hands reached out to usher the figure in, and the door shut quietly behind him, blocking out the light that had been streaming from the doorway.
The streets were dark again.
XXXXX
Christine finished her set of scales in a warm-up exercise that her teacher had taught her before, and paused to catch her breath, her ears listening keenly for any sign at all that her teacher was around.
Silence.
Her shoulders drooped in despair.
It had been almost six months. Six months since he had disappeared. Six months since the Opera Ghost had vanished without a trace.
Christine still turned up for every single supposed music lesson, though it was clear that he would not be returning. And in truth, she did not blame him. He had taught her all that he knew, had whispered to her tales of fame and glory and basking in their shared music, in the magnificence of his opera. He had patiently corrected her techniques in singing, and accepted her outburst toward his appearance with nary a temper.
He had given her more than she could ever repay him.
Her form of repayment had been to reveal his secret to Raoul on the rooftop that fateful day. She knew she should have stood up for him, should have insisted to Raoul that her teacher was innocent, and should have attempted to make Raoul see why she believed in her teacher so much. But she had been too afraid.
Too cowardly.
And in the end, she had let Raoul sway her opinions about her teacher. She had, if even just for a few moments, truly believed what Raoul had said, that her teacher had murdered Buquet in cold blood. But she ought to have known that the Opera Ghost, while capable of the most malicious pranks, would never have murdered Buquet simply to put her in the place of the Countess.
Christine felt her eyes sting with welled-up tears, and she blinked her eyes furiously to dispel the unwelcome emotions. She had made a big mess of things.
Opening her mouth, she began to sing a song. The first song she had ever sung on stage, because her teacher had seen fit to give her the opportunity to shine. Think of Me.
Think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye.
When the song was over, she stared into the emptiness of the room, half expecting his acidic comments to fill the air. Six months past, and still she could not get used to the lingering silence in the small room every time she finished her song. He should have been there, giving her advice on how to improve, or the rare comment of praise that always made her feel happy. Instead, there was now nothingness.
"Christine?" There came a knock on the door, and Raoul's handsome blond head popped around the corner of the door. "Christine, there you are."
Raoul had never understood why she insisted on practising in this small room when there were other rooms aplenty. Christine had not been able to explain it to him.
He entered the room now, carrying a fur trimmed cape. "I thought we might go out for dinner today. There is a little snow, but we will most likely be back before the snowfall gets too heavy. What say you?"
His handsome and gentle smile lifted her spirits a little. He had always been there, silently supportive. After her practices, he brought her hot drinks and little gifts to put a smile upon her face, and sometimes, they talked late into the night, just the two of them, sitting on the veranda of the closed opera house.
She nodded, beaming at him, and allowed him to drape the fur-lined cape over her shoulders.
"Christine, this room is too chilly, you are shivering," he commented as he smoothed the thick velvet over her shoulders. "Why will you not move to another room?"
She did not answer his question, but posed another one of her own. "Raoul… what if… what if the Opera Ghost was innocent, and we wronged him with the murder of Buquet?"
He frowned at her sudden change in topic. "Innocent?"
"The gendarmes themselves said that Buquet died not of strangulation, but rather from falling off a great height. And you know all the rumours about the Opera Ghost… he kills with his lasso."
Raoul shrugged. "He might have decided to vary his killing methods. Christine, there is no point in bringing up this matter again. Regardless of whether the Opera Ghost was the murderer or not, he is gone for good. We will never see him again. You need never worry about him. Shall we?" He smiled and offered his arm to her.
She took it, inwardly sighing.
Torn. Yes, that was the right word for how she felt.
She was torn between Raoul, her love, and her responsibility as a student toward her teacher.
XXXXX
"Do you know what we need, Andre?"
Andre looked up from where he had been poring over his accounts book, making small crosses and writing figures in with red ink. He frowned at the disruption of his concentration. Firmin continued his monologue gaily, as though Firmin had replied.
"We need a celebration of some sorts. The New Year is approaching, and we must celebrate."
Andre's eyebrows lifted with a semblance of interest. "A celebration? Oh, indeed, that might be appropriate. We would be able to invite much of the aristocracy, meet more people, and gain more patrons. A celebration would do us well."
"Besides," Andre lowered his voice to a whisper, "We have been rid of that pesky ghost for almost six months now, and that is something worth celebrating indeed."
Firmin waved his hands, alarmed, as though a mere mention of the aforementioned spectre might bring all the bad luck back. "Yes, we should have a celebration, to congratulate ourselves for losing that bit of bad luck! Our opera house should run smoothly from now on."
Andre clapped his hands excitedly. "A New Year's party! It shall be splendid; I propose a masquerade ball. We shall host one, Firmin. It shall be a grand event."
"Yes, a masquerade ball would be just perfect."
XXXXX
"A masquerade ball?" Erik scoffed. "I am not surprised the managers managed to think of something like that, with their addlepated brains."
Amélie giggled. "It is not that bad, Erik. Why, all the ballet rats were excited—they're all discussing which costumes they want to wear for the ball."
Erik shrugged. "It matters not what they wear. Nobody will be paying any attention to costumes, for the Opera Ghost will make his grand entrance during the ball."
Amélie stifled yet another giggle, as she was reminded of how dramatic Erik could be at times, as his fixation with the rising lights from the lake had shown. "Will the Opera Ghost be in costume as well, then?"
He smiled sanguinely at her. "The Opera Ghost will follow the rules of the party and show up in costume, as the invite decrees. Even though he did not exactly receive an invite."
"Can you sew?" She looked at him curiously, realizing that she had never asked. "How else will you have an outfit for the ball?"
"There are many secrets that the Opera Ghost does not reveal," he said mysteriously. When she raised an eyebrow at him, he laughed. "I can sew, of course. How else would I have mended my clothes, or sewed on missing buttons?"
"You would make a very good wife, Erik." Amélie teased mischievously. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she mimicked the action of sewing with a thread and needle cheekily.
Without warning, he lunged at her, knowing that she was ticklish. She went down in fits of laughter, batting at his hands and attempting to protect her sensitive sides from his insistent bouts of tickling.
"Erik, stop! I take back my statement!" She managed to choke out in between squeals of laughter. "Erik!"
He stopped suddenly, and she blinked, confused.
Oh.
It was then that she realized that they had somehow ended up on the divan, with Erik crouched over her, in a very unbecoming position. Amélie could see a telltale red flush creeping up his neck. He coughed awkwardly.
Then he suddenly leaned in and kissed her on the cheek, before practically leaping off her and striding to the other side of the room to bury his face in manuscripts. Amélie sat up, a little flustered and surprised, rubbing her cheek self-consciously.
Erik had been full of surprises over the past six months. Ever since the rooftop incident, and their kiss and subsequent confession –if it could be even called that—Erik seemed to have broken down some of his barriers by himself. Amélie would go back to her dormitory room to find flowers on her pillow, or small trinkets that would make her smile. Sometimes when she visited him in his underground house, he was comfortable enough to even roll the sleeves of his shirt up, and work with most of his arms exposed. Amélie saw it as small baby steps toward Erik being completely comfortable around her, and it made her feel extremely heartened that he was putting in so much effort.
It felt warm, and happy, and she loved him all the more for it.
XXXXX
A/N: As usual, please read/review/fav/follow/let me know what you think! xx hazel