Author's Note: Here's todays chapter, and this doesn't count as an official double update in my book, because one of them was delayed, so if I find the review counter hitting 125 today, I shall post another one. 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 23
She had spent a week waking up to Beethoven's 6th. She had spent a week coming to terms with the fact that she had kept her promise. She had spent a week welcoming back something of a lighter attitude. She had spent a week learning to communicate with people vocally again. She had spent a week getting back into the routine of exercising her voice daily. She had spent a week tolerating the abuse of Carlotta who was now racked with jealousy over the mute who had turned out to be a more than worthy rival.
She had spent a week leaning on the last words of a dying parent, finding patience in a father's promise.
She had spent another week without it being kept.
And she found herself in Vocal Performance, once again.
"Now, provided you have been studying the score as requested, today we shall be examining Shool a roon, and if memory serves me correctly, there is a member of our class who can help with the pronunciation of the words. Miss Day?"
Christine looked up, stifling the smirk that had sprung up over Gardiner's poor pronunciation. She had been hoping this wouldn't happen; that they would find someone else. She still wanted to remain fairly unnoticeable after all, which is why she had only sung on her own that week as part of the circle work, and when asked.
"Yes, Professor?"
"You have some understanding of Gaelic?"
"Yes."
"Enough to teach us how to pronounce the Gaelic in this song correctly?"
She glanced around the circle, seeing mostly curious stares, a few encouraging, and those of disdain from Carlotta and her cronies. She nodded in acquiescence. She then spent the rest of the class working with groups, trying to teach them the finer points of Gaelic pronunciation – no easy task given that the majority seemed determined to speak with accents either from America or the world of opera. Whoever wasn't working with her would be with Professor Gardiner, going over the musical aspects.
The last group of the day that she had to deal with was, inevitably, the group with Carlotta in.
"OK, it looks like the easiest way to do this is learning by rote."
"So what, you'll say it, and we say it back to you?" asked Carlotta. Christine looked at her warily. Surely she understood the principle? Why was she playing dumb?
"Yes."
"So you're actually going to grace us with your voice today then?" Christine just looked at her. She wasn't going to walk into that one.
"Oh no! Somebody fetch Professor Gardiner, I think she's gone mute again." Carlotta exclaimed with an exaggerated, mock tone of concern, causing a few titters from her friends.
"Siúil."
"What?"
"The easiest way to do this is to learn by rote. Siúil."
"You already said that."
"Then perhaps it will sink in this time. Siúil."
"Are you calling me stupid?"
"No. You are by failing to follow the lesson. If you'd rather not learn how to perform this song, then go back to the other group. Otherwise, listen and repeat. Siúil."
"Shore."
"The word ends in an 'l'. The last letters are not pronounced with great emphasis, but they are pronounced. Siúil."
"Siúil." Carlotta repeated.
"Good. The rest of you?"
She went round the group, having them each say the first word, and then the first line, and so on; correcting mistakes as she heard them until they were all emulating her reasonably well. When they finished, the bell rang and Professor Gardiner dismissed them, with threats to hear their progress next lesson.
Christine moved away to the side to gather her things, but was followed.
"Listen, Day, I don't know who you think you are, but no one talks to me like that – especially not some little fraud who passed herself off as a mute at the Ravelle!"
Christine finished packing her bag, her back to Carlotta.
"Hey, I'm talking to you."
"I noticed."
"Well?"
"Well what?"
"Aren't you going to apologise?" Christine turned to face the fuming redhead who had her arms crossed.
"There's nothing for me to apologise for. I was asked to instruct you, which I tried to do. You were being difficult, which I tried to ignore, and you insulted me."
"And you embarrassed me and stole my stage!"
"Siúil a ruin is a lament. You sang it like Carmen, and you didn't know the Gaelic. The song is very important to me and I couldn't let it be done that way. If you'd continued with the second verse I would have stopped."
"How was I supposed to know that?" she snapped.
"I did stop singing during the bridge and looked straight at you. All you had to do was start singing."
"What kind of person would give up the spotlight so easily?" she sneered.
"The kind who respects that someone else was given it first."
"No, a fool! You're just a simple little idiot, Day. What, couldn't be bothered working the first few weeks, or did you find out the calibre of your peers and decide you needed a few catch-up lessons? I've got news for you, mute: you're still in sore need of them, you little toad! No one steals the stage from me, especially not some lying little upstart who spends her time learning stupid languages instead of music."
"For your information, both my parents were Gaelic speakers, as are many of those who can claim an Irish or Scottish heritage and I learnt it from them. You know nothing of me if you believe I have studied nothing of music." She pushed past her 'rival', but turned back as she remembered part of an earlier diatribe: "And when you said I belonged here about as much as a cripple in ballet; if you were referring to Madame Giry, I suggest you rethink your words. As her adoptive daughter, I know all too well how truly stupid it is to get on the wrong side of her."
Carlotta actually paled at these words, before collecting herself and sneering once more. She would have delivered a comeback, but at most, only Christine's back would have heard it as she left the room.
He watched as she was called upon to teach the class. Why was she so reluctant to be in the limelight? A side-effect of her muteness? Whilst such modesty was certainly refreshing in artists compared to the likes of the Guidacellis, it would not do if she was to be a Prima Donna – and she would be. That would need to be cured, and soon.
She taught well – if a little hesitantly at first – as though she was trying to find her feet. But she taught as though she remembered learning. It no doubt afforded her more patience in the situation; a good thing really. He was tempted to drop another sandbag, this time directly onto Carlotta, when she started attacking Christine again. But he didn't dare in case he missed – the two were stood too closely together to even seriously consider trying. Still, she handled herself well.
So the Guidacelli girl wasn't content with her first paltry efforts. Did she want to draw blood? Christine didn't rise to any of the bait that was thrown her way. Had there been a crowd, she would have thoroughly humiliated the other girl. Instead, she managed to make her look petty and ignorant, whilst scaring her into submission long enough to make a dignified exit. She truly could have been a worthy candidate to take up the mantle of the Opera Ghost if he had chosen to retire; but he had grander plans for her than the life of a spectre – and she had had taste enough of that world already.
He followed the tunnels along the path that she usually took, hoping to spy her as she began to make her way home.
She wasn't there. He looked in all directions. There was no way she could have escaped his line of sight even if she'd been running. Unless she hadn't left yet. She had yet to let her guard down when alone, but the harpy's words had been crueller than usual, doing more than simply spiting the help that had been graciously offered.
He turned back into the tunnels and kept his ears focused, listening for anything that was out of place from the usual silence of this hour – anything that sounded like her.
He heard what was astonishingly the next best thing: Meg Giry.
Her voice albeit, not quite as pleasant, was much easier to follow. He soon found them, hidden away in one of the storage rooms. They were both curled up on the floor in between two sets. Meg had her right arm around her whilst Christine had her face buried in her hands.
"That bad, huh?" There was no joking this time.
"It wasn't just me. It was Papa and Mama and Mother and Music."
"You stood up to her?" She looked at Little Giry and answered fiercely.
"No one insults them because of me."
"You did good, girl. From what I hear, there's only you and the Ghost who's stood up to her so far."
"What, there's only me and the Ghost who'll defend music?" she said on weak laugh. She coupled herself with him under the same ideal. The words made him smile.
"Looks that way. You gonna be OK?" Christine leaned her head back against the wall.
"I don't know."
"But you're here. You're singing again."
"No I'm not." She replied wearily.
"Christine-"
"Meg, you don't understand. Papa was my world. He was everything to me."
"I know."
"He was my music."
"What do you mean?"
"Mama always used to say that unless you can put your heart into music, then at best it's notes, at worse it's noise. I can't put my heart into music anymore, because Papa took it with him to the grave. The only music I've ever known is the music we made together. He took that to the grave as well. The only thing I have left of music is my voice and I can't use it. I can make the notes, but I can't make music anymore."
"You'll heal, Christine. I know you don't want to hear it, but it's true. You'll heal and then you'll be able to sing again."
"No, Meg. I'm here because Papa wanted it. He wanted the best for me and, that's what he gave me. I'm here because he wanted it, but I can't stay here. I don't have the voice anymore. Papa took it, there's only one person who can return it, and I've been waiting for him and he still hasn't come."
"Who?"
"Papa used to tell me stories from Sweden, stories of the North. My favourites were of Little Lotte. And the Angel of Music. Half the stories he told me were about him. He used to call me Little Lotte sometimes. After Mama was gone, whenever he told me one of those stories he'd promise me that when he was in Heaven he would send me an Angel of Music. I'd tell him that I wouldn't trade him for an Angel, not even for the Angel of Music.
"Papa's gone, Meg. He stayed all this time because of me, even though he wanted to be with Mama. He stayed with me as long as he could, but he's gone home. He took my voice with him and only the Angel can give it back. I've been waiting for him for so long, Meg. I lost my world. I lost my music. If it weren't for you and Mother, I'd have nothing."
Little Giry wrapped her in a fierce embrace as the tears spilt over her lashes.
He watched from the shadows, aching to be the one to hold her. She was a child of music. No wonder she had stayed silent for so long: she knew Music, and she knew its loss.
And he knew how to bring her home.