Author's Note: First of all, thanks to Soignante, Lady Winifred, Busanda (double thanks), Rose of Night, Shayril (triple thanks), mildetryth, Erik'sLittleLotte, Spectralprincess and WindPhoenix for their latest reviews. Extra thanks are for multiple reviews, if anyone's confused.
Secondly: I will be double posting today because we've reached 60 reviews. THANK YOU! But please be patient, as I haven't actually written chapter 17 yet. It WILL be posted today though. Sorry to do this, but as I have obviously run out of pre-prepared chapters, and since you guys have reviewed so much (seriously, I am overwhelmed by all the amazing feedback I've been getting), I am now raising the review quota and will be double posting for every 20 reviews I get.
But enough ramblings from your panicked authoress! To make up for these slight annoyances, here's the next chapter which should satisfy at least some of the curiosity that I seem to have awakened, and answer a lot of questions that have been asked. Thanks again, and enjoy! Nedjmet.
Disclaimer: The characters and plotline 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. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.
Chapter 16
She put her hand to her throat out of habit, although the soreness that usually accompanied her speech was barely there after those few words.
"So how's my goddaughter today then?"
"Alright."
Spending over three months effectively mute had almost completely gotten rid of the chatty little girl that used to be Christine. Getting her to open up with words was no easy task, but it did eventually happen, so he carried on.
"I noticed you're early. No hanging around outside this time?"
"Not for long. You'd have been proud. I think Mother was surprised."
"I'll bet." She moved over and sat on the examination table.
"You seem happier today."
"Mmhm. I think I might be."
"You only think? Well, I suppose that's a turn-up from a huge resounding 'no'."
"Gus-Gus!" She reproached him with the name she had given him as a toddler.
"Ooh, low blow." It was a name which he infamously despised (but secretly loved, of course). "Seriously though, tell me."
"You remember the stories Papa told . . . from back home?" She began, referring to Sweden; the place where Charles Daaë could – and frequently did – claim half of his heritage. Gustave nodded. "Do you remember the promise he made?" She continued quietly.
"You think it's been kept?" For all that Dr Valerius was a man of science, he was also a man of deep faith – and some superstitions that had been instilled as a child had remained steadfast in spite of his education.
"I don't know. Mother made arrangements for me to stay in a house that apparently belongs to the Institute's resident Ghost who was, or is, a musician. The house is full of music. I started having the . . . dream last night, but I was woken up by a melody that I'd never heard before. It spoke to my soul and answered everything that's there. I fell asleep pretty quickly, but I swear that music was being played within the house. Part of me thinks it might be the Ghost, but I can't help but wonder if Papa's promise is being kept. How else could the music have known-"
She broke off in a gasp as a coughing fit threatened and her breathing became erratic, having spoken a little too long and with too much emotion for her damaged vocal chords to handle. Dr Valerius quickly got some water and started to massage the front of her neck. Her breathing eventually evened out and she drank the water carefully, welcoming the relief on her screaming throat.
"Better?" She nodded at length.
"OK, well then I think it's time you let me take a look." He examined her throat thoroughly, taking care not to be too rough where the damage remained.
"Good. Have you been doing your exercises?" She nodded.
"All your exercises?" She looked at him, partly with guilt, partly with sorrow and partly with something that could either be frustration or anger.
"Christine, your voice has made tremendous progress. I know you don't want to push things and risk damaging your vocal chords, but unless you start exercising your singing voice as well, there's every chance it'll suffer from not being used. Now I know how you feel about this," he said, putting up his hand to stop her interjection, "but I'm going to have to pull rank soon unless I see some improvement on that front. Doctor's orders and all that. Understand?"
"Alright." She said resignedly.
"Good. Now let's take a look, shall we?"
Christine forced back the tears that inevitably came with this phrase, knowing what followed. Had it been any other doctor, she probably would have refused this stage of the check-up point blank by now, as no other doctor would have been so consistently patient. But Gustave, being one of her father's closest friends and one of her godfathers, had never pushed her too far and always knew just when to stop. For that, she would be forever in his debt. He always phrased the requests the same way. He asked to see her throat, but he asked them both to see the rest. It had helped, but that didn't make it any less of a torture.
She removed her baggy jumper to reveal the black form-fitting shirt underneath. She wore the baggy clothes; the glasses she didn't really need and kept her hair tied back to try and be invisible – or at least unnoticeable. She wore form-fitting clothes underneath to keep everything completely hidden – just in case.
Slowly, bracing herself with each button, she removed her shirt. Dr Valerius led her over to the two mirrors that he always had arranged for her appointments. And as always, she had her eyes closed. He simply stood there and waited. History had taught that it was a BAD idea to examine her until she had seen. It only heightened her anguish.
She took a few breaths to try and calm herself, searching for the right memories. Too far back and her mind would only go further still to where the memories were at their most excruciating. Too recent, and she would only be either horrified, or upset at the lack of progress. And then she would remember the rest anyway. She found what she was looking for: two appointments ago. She remembered what she saw then.
She opened her eyes.
She looked at the reflection of her eyes first and foremost. Then the rest of her face. It was a trick she had learnt some time ago, when she had really started resembling her mother – except for their hair and their eyes and the age difference, they would have been identical, had she lived. She saw the shadows in and beneath her eyes. The worry etched across the rest of her features. She relaxed her face, to make it easier.
Her eyes travelled down her reflection's torso. She saw the pale skin – modesty preserved by her underwear – and thought it reminded her somewhat of porcelain. She looked to her reflection's right and saw the faintest traces of white. A white that was paler than her skin.
She closed her eyes and took another breath. This time, when she opened them, she looked at the reflection of the other mirror, the one stood directly behind her that allowed her to see her back, simply by staring ahead.
She traced the now familiar white scar lines through both reflections. She followed them as they came around from the base of her rib cage, up her shoulder where they broadened out into a more angry red, down the length of her arm where they narrowed off again and stopped just above her wrist. Her eyes then followed the path back up her arm, across her shoulder, to where they disappeared under a now obvious foundation line.
Gustave, having observed the path her eyes had taken, discreetly handed her a wet wipe. She looked into the reflection of her eyes again; and never breaking the contact – never looking at anything else – she wiped away her make-up. First the left side, leaving the smooth porcelain skin that had been so admired until only a few months ago.
Then the right side.
When she had finished her neck, she handed it back unseeingly to Dr Valerius. And she looked.
She saw the scars that had crept and crawled across her right side, completely marring it from her forehead, right down to her chin, and down her neck until they met the others. She looked at the left side. It should have been a mirror image of the right.
Gustave followed her eyes and saw where her thoughts were going. The mirrors did show a true reflection – but of her person, not her looks. The left side showed the beauty that she truly was in both body and soul, whilst the right was an all too vivid manifestation of the pain that had scarred her just as extensively.
Her eyes then focused on him as he watched her. Following her silent ascent – and just as gently as he examined her throat – he proceeded to check the scarring, knowing that whilst it still hurt every time she looked, it also remained painful physically in some areas.
After a few minutes, he let her dress again whilst he washed his hands. He was grateful for the few moments that allowed them to hide from one another. He knew she had shed many tears during these times, whilst he was not immune himself. He treasured his goddaughter. Having never had children of his own, and given his close friendship with Charles, he had always insisted that she call him 'Uncle'. It had never been anything less than natural to her anyway. And now his little treasure was in pain which he knew only one could heal her from. He sent up a prayer that was no doubt reminiscent of her own, asking that Charles' promise finally be kept.
He turned to face her again and saw her re-applying her make-up.
"They're healing nicely. You should be all set by the time the operation comes around."
She hadn't been able to think about the insurance money from the fire without feeling consumed by rage which was quickly followed by the all too familiar despair. It was what she had been given instead of her father, after all. Eventually, after much persuasion from Dr Valerius and plenty of the right words from Madame Giry, it had been agreed that some of the money would be used to fund an operation to surgically cover the scars that would otherwise be visible. It had been arranged to happen in the school holidays, so that no one would notice.
"As for your voice: the damage from the smoke was gone long ago; the heat and the coughing fits haven't left much behind now. I think your main concern is a lack of use."
"OK."
"Christine, I know you don't want to sing just yet, but you above all people should know better than to let yourself get out of practice on any instrument. I really think you should start talking again. At least to Antoinette."
"If I talk to Mother, I won't be able to stop myself from talking to Meg, and I don't know if she'll remember not to expect an answer from me at school. If I start talking, then I'll have to start singing. And I'm just not ready for that."
"Alright, Christine. But you can't hide yourself away forever, especially not at the Ravelle."
"I know. But right now, I need to."
"OK. Any last words before we go report in?" She finished putting her make-up away, then wrapped her arms around her Gus-Gus and said:
"Thank you." He blinked back tears as he carefully wrapped his arms around her.
"Now see, if all my patients were this grateful, I might just be able to bear coming in to work every day. Oh well, guess you'll just have to be my little ray of sunshine."
She smiled up at him. He knew that look. Christine had put her mask back on and the mute had returned. He resisted the urge to sigh as he opened the door and they made their way through the waiting area to his office, collecting Antoinette – with a one-armed hug from Christine – along the way.
Once they were seated, Gustave began straight away, wanting to put Antoinette out of her misery.
"Christine's doing just fine. Her throat is healing nicely. The damage to her vocal chords has reduced tremendously and the other scarring should be healed enough for the operation, although it will probably still be uncomfortable if jarred."
"Do you have any idea when her voice will return?"
"Medically speaking, I'd say a month, six weeks – as I've said before. But a lot does depend on Christine. Whilst her vocal chords can heal, she needs to be careful in how she uses them if she wants to make a full recovery."
Whilst Antoinette interpreted this one way, Christine received the full meaning loud and clear, and shot her godfather a look to convey that.
"Thank you, Gustave."
"Not at all, Madame. Do you have any more questions?"
"Unless there are any further instructions, I believe we have covered everything before now."
"Very well then. How's Meg?"
They chatted for a further five minutes, as he had been running early and conversing with old friends counted as a break in his book. Christine knew what he was doing: the stories and anecdotes that the two exchanged were something that she would have loved to add to, but she couldn't! She wasn't ready for her voice yet. She was just glad he hadn't said that he 'understood'. They both knew he didn't fully, but at least he knew and respected her wishes in this – in spite of his subtle prodding.
Eventually they left, Antoinette with a kiss on the back of her hand, and Christine with another hug, as was their custom.
Their ride home was again made in silence. Christine's hands never strayed to her bag for her paper. The two women both had much to think about.
Antoinette thought on Gustave's words. He had been a friend for so long, he was practically considered as family. A lot does depend on Christine. She had seemed so at peace today, and even though she was troubled as always when they visited the hospital, the peace remained to some extent, lessening her anxiety. Something had happened in that house and she determined to find out from the owner exactly what he had done – if only to encourage him in helping Christine.
Christine's thoughts were engaged on a similar topic. Uncle Valerius was the one person she could talk to who understood her father's promise and didn't ridicule it in any way. He was waiting for it to come true as well. He had accepted that it was the only way she could heal: it was the only way she could get her music back. She wondered again if it had been the Ghost. But why would he do that for her instead of returning a note with one of his own? Even if he genuinely was a ghost, he couldn't know her so well after a few weeks of silence.
But an angel could.
Christine sent up her prayer once more. It was the one she had been sending since the moment she had finally accepted that her father really was gone.
Father, you taught me of the Angel of Music. You promised you would send him when you were in Heaven. I wanted you to stay with me so badly, but you couldn't. Please, Papa, keep your promise to me now. Send me the Angel of Music. No one else can return my music to me. Please Papa, keep your promise. Let me be whole again, or I will surely follow you soon. You know I cannot live without Music. Please Papa. Please.
A tear slid down her left cheek. She brushed away the one from her right eye before it could fall. Her mask was in place now. And there was none who would take it from her.