Rose 25

There was a note waiting in Christine's dressing room following rehearsals. Once she undressed and bathed, she sat down and opened the envelope.

Until the Bal Masque, My Angel.

O.G.

Abandoning the note, she walked to the mirror and pried it open, finding the dank hallway beyond empty. Brow furrowed, she knotted her hair into a bun and decided to take the main stairs down to the fifth basement where the light would be better and hopefully less populated by rats. She would surprise Erik with a short visit and see if he had finished his costume yet.

The moment she walked out her dressing room door and into the hall she saw Raoul turning the corner and cursed under her breath. He'd been standing off to the side during rehearsals, swallowed up, it seemed, by several overly interested chorus girls that were falling over one another for his time. When Madame Giry stopped to howl at one of the dancers Christine had seen Raoul yawning and nodding at the chorus girls' painful attempts to shake their bosoms in his face or lean on his arm.

"May I have a word with you, Christine?" Raoul called out as he trotted down the hall to meet her.

Finding no escape, Christine's shoulders dropped and she sighed. "Only a moment. I'm terribly busy, Raoul."

"May we speak somewhere…more private?"

"I don't believe that would be wise," Christine replied. "My virtues have been in question enough as of late."

"Which is no fault of mine," Raoul answered.

"What ever do you mean, sir?"

Raoul stepped closer and lowered his voice. "You know very well what I mean. You said so yourself, that you have been visited by the Angel of Music. That is only half-true, isn't it Christine?"

"It's the truth," Christine said, blinking innocently. "When I'm asleep in my bed the Angel of Music sings songs in my head."

Raoul crossed his arms, remaining skeptical. "And am I to assume that you are a poet and didn't even know it?"

"Excuse me?"

Raoul shook his head, standing with his palms out. "I haven't approached you in order to argue, Little Lotte. A conversation with you regarding your so-called Angel of Music and nothing more. I swear it."

Christine looked him over, wanting to disbelieve his words. He'd never been untrustworthy in the past, but that was when they were mere children. Their lives had since changed. Nothing was for certain.

"Why do you wish to discuss my voice coach?"

Raoul glanced behind him before he turned to Christine and offered his answer. "Because you have always been dear to me. Do I need another reason, Christine?"

He was sincere, his voice and face lacking any lecherous undertones. "Where do you wish to speak?" Christine asked at last.

"The rooftop," Raoul replied as he took Christine by the arm. "Where you are safer."

"Safer? From what, pray tell?" Christine gasped as they walked along.

"I shall tell you when we are alone. There are far too many souls lurking in shadows these days."

-o-

There was snow falling when Christine and Raoul exited onto the rooftop.

"Will you be chilled standing up here?" Raoul asked.

"Not if you speak fast."

Standing on the ledge, Erik watched in shadows. He'd come up here as he had a thousand times before to quiet his thoughts. Much as he hated to admit it, he was not so different from other mortal men and he needed a moment with nothing but the chill of night in the winter or the heaviness of a humid summer evening. Fresh air kept him sane—or sane as his life would allow.

But now the salvation was ruined. Christine had betrayed him, and cloaked in shadow he would watch her slip the dagger from its sheath.

"Who is this man, Christine?"

Christine appeared taken aback by Raoul's question. "He's my music teacher."

"Where is he from?"

"Well…"

"You don't know?"

"Of course I know!"

"Then? Where is he from?"

Christine crossed her arms. "He's from…Paris."

"Paris?"

"Yes, Paris."

"And his name?"

"His name is Erik."

"His full name, Christine."

"I don't understand why you're questioning me. Are the gendarmes hiding behind the statues?"

"Yes," Raoul answered dryly. "I've hired an army to storm the opera house on your behalf. Don't be absurd. Now, tell me Christine, what's his name?"

"Erik…"

"Yes…?"

"Monsieur Erik Lu…"

"Monsieur Erik Lu…?"

"Lu'oar?"

Lu'oar?

"Is that a question?" Raoul implored. "And an echo?"

"No, that's his name. Monsieur Erik Lu'oar?"

Christine…?

"Did you hear that?" Raoul gasped. "It sounded like the wind called your name!"

"That's nonsense. Who would be up here aside from you and me, Raoul?"

"I suppose you're correct. But why does his name sound like a question?" Raoul asked.

Christine shrugged. "I really don't know. But that is his name. He's a composer."

"I've never heard of him," Raoul huffed.

"You've never heard of the great Monsieur Erik Lu'oar?"

Noir…

"Christine, would you cease this Tom Foolery! How are you creating these voices?" Raoul demanded.

"You've gone mad. Now, are we quite through? These clothes were not made for the blustery cold," Christine replied.

"We're not done, Christine. I'm concerned. Tell me honestly: Who is this man?"

Christine sighed. "Father once spoke of an angel…"

"There is no angel, Christine. He's real, isn't he?"

She lowered her gaze. Erik looked on, daring another glance from behind the shield of Pegasus. What would she tell her beloved Vicomte now?

"He is."

"And that isn't really his name, is it?"

"It is! But no one knows his name! He's…he's…"

"Tell me, Christine. You can tell me anything. You know that."

Hush…

Christine heard him that time. Erik was certain of it. He held his breath as Christine stepped away from Raoul and examined the night.

"He's the Phantom of the Opera."

Raoul made no reply. He stood and stared at her for a long moment, his arms crossed and eyes studying her face.

"Christine, there is no Phantom of the Opera."

"Raoul, I've been there," she said as she turned to face the patron.

"Where?"

"To his world of unending night."

"You're speaking nonsense. I don't like this one bit, Christine."

"I've seen his face."

Erik pressed his back to the statue and closed his eyes. This was what he dreaded, Christine confiding in another, drawn into the arms of a handsome man who would offer to protect her.

It is hardly a face, so distorted, deformed, not even in darkness…

"Has he hurt you, Christine?"

Tell him, Erik silently dared her. Tell him how I screamed at you when you removed my mask, tell him how you fell to the ground, how I towered over you and frightened you to death.

"He would never hurt me," Christine answered softly. "At first I wasn't certain, but now…? I do trust him. He has been good to me."

Raoul nodded. "He is the one with the death's head? The one who lurks in shadows."

"He is a genius," Christine answered. "No death's head, Raoul. He has reasons for lurking in shadows."

"Such as?"

"His reasons are his own. You may ask him yourself."

"Honestly? When?"

"At the Bal Masque. This is his domain. It is only fitting that he would attend the Bal, don't you think?"

It was Raoul's turn to be silent. Erik stood and examined the space between his beloved soprano and her childhood sweetheart. He no longer cared if they saw him; in fact he almost wanted them to see him standing behind them. Perhaps it would do the Vicomte good to know that he was in the presence of a demi-god.

"I urge you to be cautious, Christine. There are plans being made—quite sinister plans."

"Excuse me?"

"If this is his domain, then he should already know. Ask him, Christine. Ask Erik Lu'oar."