Author's Note: At risk of sounding like a broken gramophone: gratuitous apologies for the delay. Unfortunately, since I am trying to be good and work with my beta thus giving you all the improved version of my work: the wonderful world of technology has inevitable decided to throw a spanner - wait, as the Huns said to once mighty Rome: sack that! - the whole toolbox into the works. Congratulations if you made sense of that. Suffice to say AN's are un-beta-ed. Basically, delay was caused by technical difficulties, which we think may have been resolved now. Sorry! I am trying to be good!!
Oh, it's official: after receiving several reviews making comments along these lines, I checked with my beta who has said that yes, the brogue is getting annoying. Believe me I know, because I'm the one who has to figure out how to type it. PLEASE stick with me: it is by no means a permanent thing, and the Christine of old will be surfacing within a few chapters (don't know how many 'cause I ain't written 'em yet!). I do have my reasons for sticking with the O'Neill persona so long, so please indulge me and be patient just a wee while longer.
Thanks to UinenDolothen, jtbwriter, Timeflies, laal ratty, Nyasia A. Maire, KyrieofAccender, chrys.cadis.chasa, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ, mildetryth, phantom-jedi1, OperaLover and Norma Leann Zane for their latest reviews.
An extra special thank you to montaquecat to whom I would like to dedicate the next two chapters. Hon, saying you sound like you've been in the wars lately would probably be an understatement. Hope these offerings cheer you up a wee bit. And you definitely get an Erik-shaped hug. Thanks for all your PM's and keeping me on my toes.
To all my readers and reviewers: thanks again, and enjoy! Your ever-grateful authoress, Nedjmet.
Disclaimer: The characters and storyline of The Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Neither do I own any of the songs or music I make use of or refer to in this story. No infringement of copyright is intended. I have the greatest respect for the creators of all of the above and mean no offence by using their material. This story is a sequel, and this and the original it is based on are my own work with the exceptions mentioned above. Please do not use without permission.
Chapter 8
Having established that yes, Danny had been aware of the 'slight alterations' to Mo Ghile Mear; no, he had not heard the last of it; yes, he was in trouble and no, it wouldn't be forgotten any time soon; Christine finally managed to come down from the ceiling where the impromptu performance had left her and went in search of a certain other figure in black who had disappeared rather swiftly with the excuse of putting his violin away. Whilst the morning spent working with Danny and part of the orchestra on some of the O'Neill repertoire had been pleasant – in spite of her anxieties over the aforementioned figure in black – it was nothing to the direction the day had taken. Was it possible she had forgotten what it was really like to be on the same stage as him? To have him perform with her, maybe even for her? To lose herself completely in the wonder of his presence, his spell, his Music, all the while knowing he was experiencing the same? Certainly her memories had failed to capture the sheer ecstasy of the sensation; otherwise she might have actually had something to cling onto these last years.
It didn't take her long to reach her goal: the practice room she had found him in earlier – Danny having assured her that it had become his base of operations. She closed the door behind her as soon as she was in; and based on the look on his face, he was in the middle of something. Although, based on the look on his face when he saw who had disturbed him, the disruption was not in truth unwelcome.
Straightening from the papers he had been leaning over, he began moving towards her. She met him halfway. And throwing her arms around his neck, took whatever words he had been about to speak from out of his mouth. Slowly, somewhat hesitantly, he returned the embrace as though it were his first. Given the length of time since the last he'd received from his rose, it might as well have been. They stood there a long while, she with her head resting on his chest, his head resting atop the red hair; both as natural as though they had never been parted.
"Thank you."
The words came softly, being somewhat buried, as Christine had yet to move. Being similarly lost in the moment, he almost missed them. Almost. He did wonder if it was his imagination or if the accent had been lacking then.
At length, they parted slightly; though the embrace remained whole, they at least had room to look at one another.
"Better?" Not that he really needed to ask, but he wanted her assurance all the same before he surprised her once more. He was warmed greatly by the smile that lit up her features in reply.
"Can you bring the O'Neill magic back to the stage?" The smile that tugged at his lips was not easily repressed at her fervent nodding, yet he managed it in order to elaborate:
"Good. So long as it is your magic that you offer on that stage. Anything else would not be worthy of you, nor of Katie."
Her face froze and he felt her tense in his hold. Moving his hands to her shoulders that he might better see what the matter was, it was his turn to freeze when she whispered in the thickest brogue he'd heard from her yet:
"Ye knew her." He released her slightly.
"Of course I knew her. Few could come to The Clover without knowing her."
She took hold of him this time, making sure he was looking at her and the depth of meaning she was trying to convey.
"No. Ye knew her. No one called her Katie unless she let 'em. She ne'er let folk call her that unless they were close to her. And I've lost count o' the number o' times you've called her Katie;" Moving her face closer so that he didn't dare look away, she said again, "ye knew her."
"Yes. I knew her. She began my 'career' in music." Hearing the thickness in his voice and feeling lost in the confusion his answer wrought, she absently rubbed his shoulder to let him know it was alright.
"You seem surprised. At least now there's another way to tell the difference between the two of you."
As he moved away, she wondered at the hurt in his voice. Mostly she wondered at his strange revelation. If he had known Katie, then did he know who she was in relation to her? Did he know before . . . at the Ravelle? How had he known her mother? Quickly she raced through her memories, looking for something, anything that was even vaguely like him. She all but stamped in frustration. Either her mother had known him and not shared that memory, or she had not done so outright.
"Maybe I just cannae remember everytin' she told me. I doubt ye could be easily forgotten by her . . . or anyone." Turning, he saw a message in her eyes that rekindled the hope he had just been laying to rest. Content with that and unwilling to risk parting with it so swiftly, he moved on to his own petition.
"I shall hope that you remember. I would not want your memories of her to be incomplete. And now that you are confident in your music, I have something to ask of you, if I may?"
"Of course." she replied, relieved that she hadn't jeopardised things between them with her reaction and wanting to maintain the goodwill that seemed to have developed.
"How familiar are you with Carmen?"
She watched the dancers with a vacant expression – which was no easy task.
When he, Erik – that still felt so strange – had explained what he wanted her to do, she had been confused to say the least. Now as she watched the dancers attempt and fail to convey the opening song from act two of Bizet's most famous opera, she was beginning to get something of an idea. Looking past the energetic gyrations of the dancers who would look perfect in a hip-hop or rap video but would only be laughed off an operatic stage if they were lucky; looking beyond the surface she saw the undercurrents and emotions of the entire opera. He was trying to bring Carmen to life. Clearly he had had a hand in the choreography, but equally clearly, he was not pleased with the results of leaving the dancers to their own devices – if the black glare he was barely suppressing was anything to judge by. He had always been controlling when it came to music; when it came to his music, possessive was putting it lightly. Now that it was his first concert in public upon which a vast depth of emotion appeared to be riding, she knew it was not going to be pleasant if the dancers' current farce couldn't be corrected soon.
At last, the music finished. Silence. Standing at his side, she looked down at him and saw a muscle working in his jaw. Lightly, she let her hand rest on his shoulder. He looked up at her in question and she turned her attention back to the dancers. Looking to the young woman who appeared to be leading the set, she began:
"Sorry, I don't believe I know yer name." Obviously surprised that she was being addressed directly, and clearly suspecting a reprimand, she answered warily.
"Claire." Smiling warmly, Christine moved forward and offered her hand which was briefly taken.
"Claire. I'm Miss O'Neill. I was just wonderin': could ye tell me what ye were told to do fer this dance?" Looking at her as though she'd grown a third ear on top of her head, the dancer replied:
"Well, we start with a basic step-"
"No, sorry. My fault. I saw the choreography. What were ye told aboot how to make it more than just steps. How were ye told to act, to behave?"
"You got a problem with the dance?"
"No, no. I thought it was grand." Christine answered quickly, trying to calm the affronted dancers down. Not that it worked on a certain other gentleman in the room.
"Have you lost your mind, Miss O'Neill?"
She recognised that voice. It meant there was only one right answer and woe betide anyone who said otherwise. Bring on the woe.
"No, Mr. Destler. Now would ye mind buttonin' it?" she answered swiftly before turning back to the conversation she had already begun. 3 . . . 2 . . . 1 . . .
"What was that?" The hand on her shoulder made her jump slightly, though she wasn't at all surprised by the rest. Turning to face the man who now towered over her with thunder in his voice and fire in his eyes, she put her hand on his chest and replied:
"It means, shush. Now" Applying gentle pressure, she began moving him back, though it was probably her attitude that propelled him rather than herself, "I can tell ye weren't thrilled by the dance and if you'll just give me a minute I can try and see hoo to fix it."
"That, Miss O'Neill, was a gross understatement." Pushing past her, he went on, his frustration at a point beyond that which he could contain. "I fail to see how you could apply the term 'grand' to this shambles unless you were referring to the disaster that was presented. It barely coordinated with the music and it certainly bore no resemblance. These 'dancers' don't seem to know the first thing about style,"
"Mr. Destler-"
"Not to mention their complete disregard for tempo and rhythm. I don't doubt Bizet would be turning in his grave if this was ever let near the stage. I've seen penguins with more skill."
"MR. DESTLER!" Finally he stopped and looked at the red head only to realise her hair was not the only part of her that was burning. "For yer information, everyone, that was actually a complement. Penguins happen to be very good dancers,"
"Miss O'Neill-"
"And if Mr. Destler disagrees with me, he clearly hasn't seen Mary Poppins." Seeing a number of the dancers struggling to hide smirks, she allowed the relief to calm her down a little.
"Miss O'Neill, now is hardly the time for jokes. In case you hadn't noticed-"
"Erik." That got his attention. She went on with a quiet steel that was all too familiar to him: "They get the point. And I noticed plenty. For starters, I noticed that the choreography was very good. I also noticed that these dancers must be pretty well skilled to pull it off. And I noticed a lot of potential here, if you'll just let me try and get to it." She'd approached him as she'd spoken and they now stood toe to toe, challenging one another. The dancers surrounding them looked in awe at the Irishwoman who was daring to defy the man who had intimidated all others he'd worked with. Still frowning, he nodded, arms folded in stubbornness.
"Right, now then, Claire, where were we?"
"Basically, it's hip-hop and it needed to be sexy." the thoroughly bemused dancer replied.
"That's what ye were told?" – a nod – "right, well it did look good, and I don't doubt it'd be brilliant in a music video for that sort o' ting, but it doesnae really work for this. Who came up with it, by the way?"
A slender man approached who looked as though he'd been designed to be a dancer.
"I did. Piers Hamilton. What exactly do you mean, 'it doesn't work'?" Not bothering to even offer his hand, it was clear that he didn't mind arguing with her, though the same wouldn't be said of the other musician in the room.
"Where did this come from? The dance, I mean. Where did ye get yer inspiration?"
The man then proceeded to rattle off a list of artists and routines that he had not only come up with, but drawn on. Listening to him, she realised that she would have to tread very carefully. Not only did he have a very impressive set of credentials, but she had seen the proof that he could use them – but for the fact that they were misapplied.
"Ye sound like ye know what you're doin', and I'm not knockin' that – I've seen the proof."
"Then what exactly is the problem?" Would he have allowed himself to sound so irate were he talking to her Angel, she couldn't help but wonder.
"The problem is, ye didnae let the music guide you. You've missed the essence of Carmen."
"I am familiar with the opera."
"Not enough. Or at least, you're not familiar with who Carmen is."
"What do you mean?"
"What do you mean?"
"Will you be Carmen?" Christine looked over the score in front of her, taken aback by the strange question.
"I don't understand. Ye didnae write this." He smirked, as though to say 'of course not, I can do much better,' something of which she was all too aware.
"True. For all the pleasantness of her repertoire, Katie did enjoy more demanding roles and was well received in them."
"She always did like Carmen."
"You say that as though she wasn't alone in her opinion." She looked at the raised eyebrow and decided to give him this one, if only because she was curious as to his reaction.
"I must have been all of two or three at the time. But I remember seeing a video of Carmen and falling head of heels for that overture. It's the first piece of music I ever loved – well, the first mainstream piece anyhoo. It still gets me every time." She beamed up at him. The fondness in his eyes as he returned her smile melted her and she had to look away, lest the tears that threatened managed to spill.
"So what're ye usin' this fer, if ye didnae write it?"
"I adapted it. It only requires one voice, and it has a shorter introduction." He moved to stand behind her, placed his hands on her shoulders and whispered into her ear: "More subtle."
"Why this one?" He came around to face her, though one hand never left her shoulder.
"Do you know Carmen? Do you know what she is?" Tipping her chin up, he wanted to see her full answer.
"Aye."
"She is many things. But there is a life and fire within her that Katie shared. She merely has to sing a note and she captivates, just as Katie did." His hand under her chin moved to cup her face. "Just as you do. I will give them a taste of my music in the first act. The second will blend mine with hers to ease the audience into the final. This will be the last piece. By this point, they should have realised that the O'Neill music is coming. But this will bring your music into it. This will make you a part of the whole concert as opposed to one act."
His hands were still, and yet she felt his caresses all over her, for his voice was as gentle and real a touch as any hand, no matter how skilled, and she closed her eyes captured by its spell.
"Why this song?" Her eyes fluttered open. "Why not one of your own?"
"I will use my own, but I will introduce her by using the music that was hers. I will show them all that she was . . . all that she was to me by using the music she loved, that embodied the side of her that I knew."
Christine thought over the words of the song he was asking her to sing, the role he was asking her to embrace. Yes, he had known her mother. But from a distance.
She agreed.
"What I mean is that you've failed to take into account who Carmen is, what she is."
"And what is she?" With a hand on his hip, Christine tried to suppress the image that Piers looked rather like a coffee pot. Instead she focussed on what her Angel had said to her on this subject. And more importantly, the way he had said it.
The brogue thickened. Her voice deepened and softened. She spoke as slowly as she moved about the room with her answer, her body echoing the sentiments she was conveying: subtlety, grace, prowess. Seduction.
"I know Carmen is often portrayed as being brazen, but ne'er consistently so. No offence ladies, but that's what ye were doin'. Carmen is brazen in a lot o' ways, but only because she chooses to be. Not because she has to be. Carmen gets attention simply by bein' on stage. She doesnae have to move or speak or sing. If she's there, folk notice. But if she does move, or speak, or sing, then everyone – everyone – notices.
"Ye see, with men, it's Don Juan. With women, it's Carmen. She is the ultimate seductress. But where Don Juan seduces, he uses and leaves. With Carmen, she ne'er stops. Now she may – and often does – leave, but she ne'er stops. She isnae just a seductress: she is seduction. No matter who ye are, no matter whether you want it or not, she will entice you, she will captivate you, and she will make you crave her."
She shifted her movements as she altered the course of her conversation. She began moving closer to people instead of just amongst them, and the closer she moved to a man, the more her motions resembled a dance. And the more they followed.
"This song is all aboot that. It doesnae embody all that Carmen is quite the same as the Habañera, but it isnae meant to. This song is aboot her spell, but mostly, it's about the magic of Music. It starts out slow, quiet, and it works so subtly that you dinnae realise you're under its power until ye dinnae want to be otherwise. It beats with the rhythm of life and demands that ye live, that ye respond. It paints with the colours of fire and it burns you with that after makin' ye want to be consumed. It moves with passion and that is how it possesses ye."
She stood between her maestro and the dance instructor, looking at the latter, moving towards him, making him echo her movements.
"Ye see, Carmen doesnae have to be brazen: Music does the work for her." She stopped Piers with a raised hand, and only then did he realise he had moved at all. She smiled a knowing, calculating smile – she smiled like Carmen – and turned back towards her former mentor.
"The music takes hold o' ye until every part o' ye is doin' as it commands. The music is irresistible. But Carmen, simply by followin' it an' combining it with her own magic," – she was barely an inch from him when his hand slid around her waist and she traced her fingers up his chest to his chin enunciating each word very deliberately – "she makes it absolute intoxication." With one finger under his chin, she closed his mouth that had fallen open some time ago, and broke the spell.
"Did I forget anythin'?" The smile she wore was far too sweet and innocent. And he was more tempted than ever to wipe it away with a kiss. Hang the music and Carmen: it was Christine who possessed, who consumed. She was irresistible and he knew how sweet an intoxication she was. Worst of all, he didn't doubt that she was all too aware of the effect her spell was having.
Taking his silence as a satisfactory answer, she turned – though he was relieved she didn't move to be released from his hold, or he may well have finally gone insane.
"Now, Mr. Hamilton, do ye mind if I have a go at workin' that into your choreography?"
"I'm not sure, I . . ."
"I won't be changin' the steps or anythin', like I said I thought it was grand. It just needs a bit o' tweakin'."
"Very well."
"And do ye mind if it's just myself and the dancers? I don't want to start arguin' with ye when we've only just met." she asked with a smile few could have resisted after her little performance. Piers bowed slightly and left, which she was greatly relieved about. No doubt he would have had a hard time relinquishing control otherwise. Though if the hand still on her waist was anything to go by, he was probably a novice in the ways of being possessive.
"You too, Mr. Destler." she instructed, not daring to face him with all the heat he was generating.
"I'd rather stay."
"And I'd rather surprise you. Besides," she turned but stepped away as she did so, though his hand didn't leave her, "based on your previous opinion of the dancers, I reckon you'd be more help when we've got a final product for ye."
Realising he was in trouble – and that he would be in more of a different sort if he carried on looking at her in his present state of mind – he conceded some measure of defeat.
"Half an hour."
"Challenge accepted."
"En garde, mademoiselle." he replied with a smirk, which only broadened into a full-blown grin as she called over her shoulder,
"Non, monsieur: prend garde à toi!"
AN: prend garde à toi! is from a song in Act 1 of Carmen called Habanera. Very famous piece of music. If you think you've never heard it, you've probably have, only it'll have been butchered as a ringtone. Sorry for the Phantom-esque-ness there (not really), but I'm kinda picky about music sometimes, in spite of my weird and varied taste in it. Anyhoo, back to the point: it comes from the repeated line: Mais, si je t'aime, si je t'aime, prend garde à toi! which means 'but if I love you, if I love you, be on your guard/you'd better watch out!'. Basically, a bit of in-character flirting that both parties get, seeing as they're opera nuts. If you've never heard the song, go to youtube and search for Anne-Sofie von Otter singing it. Trust me, you've never seen Carmen sing quite the way she does. BTW, Habanera is NOT the song that he wants her to sing. Erik-shaped hug for anyone other than my beta (who already knows) if they can work out what it is before I post again. Cheers! N.