A/N: Whew, I had no lessons on Friday and a public holiday on Monday, thank goodness for the long weekend! It's given me some time to recharge at home, before I go back to lessons and projects again.
Masked Man 2: Actually, Eustache has definitely appeared before in the story... he's someone who should be quite familiar to us Poto fanfic readers... Hahaha I don't blame you for forgetting though, I myself had to search through the document for the name because I forgot what I called him. And I'm glad you like how I portrayed Christine! I'm not a Christine-hater by any chance, I think most people are too quick to judge her, and I like to portray her as a confused individual who's slowly but surely finding her own voice (literally and figuratively, hah!)
Lydia the tygeropean: Fluff indeed! The masquerade has finally arrived!
Savannah White: Aww, give Christine a chance! She isn't that bad! Haha.
random person: Thank you so much! It means a lot to me that you left a comment just to say that. (:
marial0789: He definitely will be!
Mikazuki Okami: There will definitely be a solid resolution; I hate open endings and speculation! Hmm I don't have an idea of how many more chapters I'll write, actually, but seeing as this is already chapter 47, I would give a rough gauge of 10 more chapters? I might like to end off on a nice round chapter, maybe 60 chapters in total.
Nikki1991: All in good time (; And oh, I had so much fun writing Amelie's costume. It did not contribute much to the plot, but it was fun writing it. I hope you'll like it as much as I did while writing!
Tallen93: Thank you! I'm so glad you're enjoying the story so far! And I know, I love working with content from all three versions of Poto, because everything works together so well and I have so much to work with that way. Happy reading! (: Thank you for the follow+favourite, by the way!
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Chapter 47: Masquerade
Paris, 1898
"Erik?" Antoinette rapped on the door of the passageway that she had come through, and opened it, only to find the floor covered in yards of red and black fabric. Amidst that mess sat the Opera Ghost, a thread and needle in his hand, meticulously sewing small stitches onto the length of red cloth that he was holding in his hand.
Antoinette stared at him, aghast. "Erik? What is going on?"
He looked up at her;he had been so deeply concentrated on sewing that he had not even heard her enter. "Oh, Antoinette. I bid you good day."
"Erik, have you decided to take up a change in profession, by any chance? All this cloth…" Antoinette wound her way gingerly through the piles of cloth, and sat down on one of the chairs in the room. "What in the world are you doing?"
"The Opera Ghost can do things besides compose music and terrorize the poor citizens of the opera house, Antoinette," he remarked, and she chuckled.
"So tell me, why is the great Opera Ghost not spending time on his opera, and is instead sitting around sewing stitches onto a piece of red cloth? Did I miss something in your plan, Erik?"
"The masquerade, Antoinette. The Opera Ghost will make his grand return on the day of the masquerade ball." He finished his stitching, and knotted the thread, snipping it off the spool. Then, he shook out the piece of cloth and held it up for Antoinette.
Je suis la Mort Rouge qui passe!
The words were embroidered onto the red cloth in fine gold thread, stitched tirelessly by Erik in neat little stitches. Antoinette could not help marvelling at Erik's embroidery skills, though she chuckled slightly at the thought of Erik embroidering like a housewife.
She read the words, and her brow creased. "I am the Red Death that passes."
"My costume for the ball, Antoinette," Erik said solemnly, "will be the Red Death. The return of the Opera Ghost wil be as inevitable as Death itself, sweeping through the grand foyer of the Palais Garnier and leaving everyone behind in its wake. A glorious costume, is it not?"
"You always had a flair for the dramatics, Erik." Antoinette shook her head fondly. "But enough about the costume. What do you intend to do during the ball?"
"My magnum opus is complete, Antoinette. A few tweaks here and there, perhaps, but it is rather complete. I am almost ready to pass it onto the managers. My opera will finally be performed."
"And… the lead?" Antoinette asked, even though she already knew the answer. Erik looked at her keenly, those green eyes brilliant in his face.
"Christine will sing the lead role of Aminta. There is to be no other. The role was written for her." He said firmly.
"And what if… what if she does not sing?"
"She will sing," he said with conviction, remembering the six months' worth of missed lessons, of hearing Christine practice despite his absence, of her pleas and her apologies. "Christine will sing for me."
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Paris 1899, New Year's Day
"How do I look?" Amélie gave a twirl before Erik, her full skirts flaring out in a circle around her shapely legs. "Can you guess what my costume is?"
Erik looked at her oddly, as though he did not dare to hazard a guess. "Pardon me if I am wrong, Amélie, for I may not be in the know about ladies' fashions… could you perhaps be dressed up as… a flower?"
She wore a fitted bodice that hugged her torso snugly, in crimson damask, the heavy fabric heavily embroidered with dark green patterns that looked like twining leaves and vines. The skirts were of the same red fabric, with parts gathered and pulled upward, pinned with black pearls, to reveal underskirts of a deeper red, black, and at the bottom-most layer, a dark forest green so dark it almost resembled black. The whole construction shimmered with the green leaf embroidery, and around her neck, Amélie wore a crimson lace choker. Her straight bronze hair had been curled with a curling iron, and pulled back in an up-do, with delicate tendrils framing her face. Her face was powdered and her lips painted the scarlet of a blooming rose. Her hands were adorned with elbow-length black lace gloves.
She clapped her gloved hands excitedly. "Yes, indeed. Do you know which flower?"
His response was to pull a large rose bloom from an inner pocket in his coat with a flourish, and he tucked it behind her ear gently. She beamed at him.
He grasped her hand, bringing it up to his lips and brushing his lips across the back of her hand in a gentle caress. "You'll be the most beautiful rose in the room tonight, Amélie."
She laughed, and stepped in closer to give him a small hug. "I have not seen your outfit yet, Erik."
"Ah-ah… it is to be a surprise. However, I do believe we will match."
"Really?" She stepped back, surprised. He nodded, amused.
"In any case… the Opera Ghost will be making his reappearance after six months of absence. Amélie, I want you to stay out of the way, in case there is a large commotion. I do not want you to be hurt."
She frowned. "I wanted to see you in action. However, I will stay on the second level of the foyer and watch from above. But Erik, please promise me that you will not do anything drastic. You do not want to give the Opera Ghost a bad name."
He laughed bitterly. "How much worse can my name become? It has already been tracked through the mud. No, Amélie, this time the Opera Ghost only wants to see his work performed before he retires. I promise you that."
He held out his hand to her. "Come now, I'll walk you back to the surface before I begin my own preparations."
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Meg danced through the foyer of the Palais Garnier, twirling delightedly in her shepherdess costume, the light pink skirts hemmed with a delicate lace blossoming out into a full circle around her ankles. It had been worth it spending those late nights in the seamstresses' rooms, helping them stitch on missing buttons or mend tears, in exchange for this beautiful masquerade costume. She held her pink lace mask, fashioned in the shape of butterfly's wings up to her face as she surveyed the room. Her gaze landed on one particular stiff-looking figure, standing against a pillar alone, observing the room's festivities with naught a single trace of joy on her face. Meg skipped up to the figure.
"Oh Maman, where is your costume?" Meg asked, dismayed. "It is a masquerade, Maman! Whatever are you wearing?"
Her mother sniffed at her disapprovingly. "I have come in the role of a strict ballet mistress, Meg. Now, do go enjoy the party, and leave your mother here to continue acting out her role."
Meg giggled at her mother's usual stern demeanour, and skipped away, though she had to admit that it had been a little strange that her mother had seemed a little nervous. Nervous, on a day such as this! It was only a party to celebrate the arrival of a new year, after all, and there was nothing to be nervous about. Meg looked suspiciously at her mother. The ballet mistress was casting glances around the room, as though she were waiting for someone, or hoping to spot somebody in particular. It was strange, because her mother usually never attended parties, much less attend them to be on the lookout for somebody.
Meg's brow furrowed. There had to be something more that was going on.
She slipped out of the doors to the foyer quietly, letting herself into the employees' corridors in the opera house, now dark and empty as the party raged in full throng in the foyer. A few lone candles flickered dimly in the sconces on the wall. Meg padded quietly around the corridors, her eyes focused on the darkness, looking out sharply for anything out of the ordinary.
She turned the corner and crashed into a person. Meg stumbled back and looked up straight into the skeletal face of a skull. Her eyes widened and she opened her mouth to scream, but the skeleton clapped a hand over her mouth quickly, raising a finger to his lips to indicate to her to remain silent.
"Are you alright?" A deep voice resonated from the figure, and Meg realized that the voice was coming from behind the skull; it had been but a mask.
She nodded dumbly, then realized that it was him.
The figure had already begun to walk off after hearing her assurance that she was unharmed, and Meg hurriedly turned to rush after him.
"Monsieur, wait! Where are you going? Are you… are you the Opera Ghost?"
The figure paused, and she could see brilliant green eyes regarding her through the empty sockets of the skeletal mask.
"Ah, curiousity, Meg. You remind me of someone I know very well." He began to walk again, calling out conversationally over his shoulder. "You should hurry back to the foyer; a grand show is about to begin. I would hate for you to miss it."
And then he had disappeared into the darkness of the next corridor, as surely as a panther ran in the dead of night, leaving her alone with the startling realization that she had just had a conversation with the Opera Ghost.
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"Christine, I do not understand." Raoul followed closely behind her, grasping her elbow. "Talk to me!"
She turned, a little exasperatedly. "Raoul, please! I ask only that we keep our engagement a secret. That is but a small favour I asked of you."
"The reason, Christine, the reason. Is it because you are scared that 'he' will find out?" Raoul tugged on her elbow, making her stop and turn to face him. "Christine, 'he' is gone! It has been six months. I would have thought you free of his tyranny after all this time; or are you still under his power?"
Oh Raoul. 'He' already knew, from the start. I betrayed him so long ago, and I'm paying that price now, for my beloved teacher is gone.
Christine could think of no straight answer to give to Raoul as to why she did not want him to announce the engagement to the opera house. Perhaps it was something about the fact that she did not feel entirely comfortable about the whole affair. There was something about the way she felt guilty and anxious all the time, the way those negative feelings far overwhelmed any happiness she should be feeling, that felt strange. It felt wrong. She should be feeling bliss and joy at having secured a stable, secure future with a warm and loving husband, but nothing about her feelings seemed right.
She was still too caught up in her guilt, too worried about what had happened to her Angel, too engrossed in her thoughts about how much she had hurt him. And at the same time, she felt so terribly guilty for lying to Raoul, who had been nothing but extremely supportive and caring. The combined guilt was eating away at her from the inside.
Raoul took her silence as consent, and he sighed. He took her face in his hands, cupping her rosy cheeks in his large, warm palms. "Christine, please. I am worried about you. For the past few months you have been anxious and absent-minded, and sometimes when I talk to you, it is as though you are not even listening. You know you can tell me anything, and I will do my best to help you with it. Are rehearsals tiring you out?"
Christine placed her slim palm over Raoul's. "Raoul… it is nothing. I am just distracted, that is all. It is not a big matter. I just feel that it is not yet the right time for us to announce our engagement. After all, you have not even discussed it with your parents. Can we not make it public after everything has been settled? I would feel so much better that way, really."
He nodded reluctantly, and the tension in her shoulders relaxed. She sighed. She hated using his concern for her to get her own way, but really, there was nothing else she could have done to make him agree not to announce their engagement.
"Shall we head out for some fresh air? It is getting a little crowded in the foyer—" Christine began to say, but her words were silenced by a loud, explosive noise. It echoed through the room deafeningly, and several people screamed. There was a huge burst of smoke in the air, and when it cleared, a menacing figure was standing at the top of the grand staircase that led to the foyer.
There were horrified whispers and murmurs all around, and quickly, the space around the staircase cleared of people, leaving an empty, straight path toward where Christine was standing with Raoul.
It was the Red Death.
Clad in garb of sinister black and glorious red, and swathed in a cloak of brilliant crimson, he looked formidable, majestic, even. A skeletal mask covered his face, hiding all emotion.
Christine gasped in shock. It was him. Her Angel.
Raoul mistook her gasp for fear, and he immediately grabbed her, attempting to place her behind him, but Christine resisted, her eyes fixed on the lone figure standing still on the flight of stairs.
The sharp green eyes behind the mask scanned the room swiftly, before landing on Christine, piercing her with his gaze. She looked at him sadly, forlornly, trying to convey everything she wanted to say through her eyes. She had not seen or heard from him in six months.
Please forgive me. She mouthed to him.
He merely looked at her emotionlessly, before turning his gaze away from her, focusing instead on the two managers who were standing a short distance away from him. Firmin's mouth was wide open, as though he could not believe his eyes, and Andre looked as though he was ready to cry.
"Why so silent, good messieurs?"
He spoke in his Opera Ghost voice, harsh and forbidding, but Christine could have cried out in joy. She had not heard her teacher speak in so long.
Now the Red Death advanced down the stairs, and the partygoers remained frozen where they were, many with eyes wide open in amazement.
The Opera Ghost was back.