Author's Note: Thanks again to terbear, CarolROI, steelelf, Busanda, Soignante, WindPhoenix, Rose of Night, Lady Winifred, Shayril (double thanks, glad that got cleared up), mildetryth and Spectralprincess for their latest reviews. I've a sneaking suspicion that this chapter will send us over 150 reviews. If it does, I'll do the double posting tomorrow instead of today.
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 26
"You let her go out alone at this time of night with rain threatening?" Madame Giry yelled at her daughter. Meg had been worried when Christine had left; and by the time the rain started falling, she'd realised what a bad idea it really was.
"She wanted to get home before it got dark. I didn't see the clouds until after she'd gone."
"What time did she leave?"
"About an hour ago. She won't have made it in time, will she?" Meg said, realising exactly why her mother was so upset.
"Come on."
They got in the car, Madame Giry taking the wheel. Meg was still learning to drive, and Antoinette wasn't about to let a slight limp that was barely noticeable stand between her and her second daughter. She dreaded to think of the state that Christine would be in if she had indeed been caught in the rain. The darkness had an oppressive feel to it that foretold the arrival of a full-blown storm. And whatever she thought about it would no doubt be magnified an awful lot in Christine's mind.
They drove the route to Christine's house slowly; scouring everywhere they could see, trying to find her. No one was around the campus at this time of night, so their task was made somewhat easier. It was with some relief that they couldn't; but at the same time, it was very worrying because of the possibility that the weather had forced her to take shelter elsewhere.
"Maman, look!" Meg called out. Antoinette brought the car to a quick stop. There were lights on in the house. She'd made it home? She drove the car the rest of the way; they got out and knocked on the door.
Christine opened it. Smiling. And there was music playing in the house!
"Child, you are well?" Antoinette asked as the two were let in.
"Mmhm. Why?"
"We thought you'd been caught in the rain or something." Meg answered, wondering what had gotten into her sister.
"I nearly did, but I found somewhere to wait it out."
"Christine, what has happened?" Madame asked, not quite understanding her attitude either.
"Happened?"
"I have not seen you so . . . happy in the longest time." She elaborated.
Christine was about to answer but paused, not knowing whether the Angel would want her to speak of him. He had remained hidden after all, and was very selective about those to whom he chose to reveal himself.
"I'm relieved not to have been caught in the rain. And I'd forgotten how beautiful it can be." She replied. Meg accepted this – still not understanding what the deal was with the music – but acknowledging that Christine's worry would have been great. Antoinette, however, recognised the look her second daughter wore: she was hiding something. That; and her answer just wasn't plausible enough.
"So what's with the music?" Meg asked, still curious.
"Appalachian Spring. I was missing it."
"What?"
"Music. I've ignored it too long, and I need more of it in my life than just wake-up calls."
"So, you're OK?"
"Yes. Did I really have you two that worried?" She returned in good-humoured exasperation.
"We aren't likely to stop worrying any time soon, ma petite. Especially when you decide to walk around outside in the dark." Madame gently admonished. Of course they'd been worried!
"Sorry, Mother." That took the wind out of her sails. It was the first time Christine had called her 'mother' to her face since she'd started speaking again.
"You are well, my dear. That is enough." She said, before showing herself and Meg out; with the usual apologies for Meg's schedule being the reason for such a hasty departure – nothing to do with the disapproving glare of the shadow that she had seen through the window, of course.
Christine closed the door behind them and leaned back against it, as was her habit after a particularly odd or trying event. This time though – as with the last – she smiled. Music hadn't abandoned her, nor had it forgotten her. She wasn't worried about the dark as she climbed up the stairs – for she knew that it wouldn't be haunting her dreams this night.
The Angel was watching.
She had gone straight home and headed towards one of the rooms that had clearly been designated for storage. He had wondered at her behaviour as he watched her. Had he thought long enough, he would have wondered at his own: exposing himself so much; risking being seen so often.
Her actions had been made clear, however, when music began to fill the house. Slow, gentle clarinet music, riding gently on the back of a string section; growing, developing until it burst forth, full of life. Copland was an interesting choice of hers: modern, leaning towards jazz; emotive and beautiful. Probably chosen because of the ease with which it could be listened to. There was nothing so deeply stirring as, say, Stravinsky's work – to name a contemporary – in the ballet, so it was not liable to stir up any unwelcome or painful emotions. But it would soothe, relax and delight, nevertheless.
A good choice, Christine.
Christine
She was his. He still couldn't believe it. Neither had she, to begin with. He would have to work hard to ensure those doubts didn't surface again. He couldn't be too careful if this was to work: if he was to give her voice wings, if he was to take her to the haven of Music's sanctuary.
If they were both to heal.
He was about ready to jump out of his hiding place in fury at the intruders when the knocking began on the door. He was relieved when it was the Girys. So there was a similar concern about the rain as with the darkness. Had she a fear of that too? Surely not, for Little Giry had accepted her reply readily enough. What more unspoken secrets had he to learn of his protégé?
He travelled through the tunnel and came around to the front – remaining invisible, save for Giry's eyes. She got the message. He had given his word that he would be watching her, that her safety was assured. Her continuing enquiries about her charge – whilst touching – were growing more insulting with each passing moment.
He had disappeared by the time they emerged –he had gone back to watching Christine.
She smiled. He had done that, he knew it.
Once she had climbed the stairs, he sunk back down into the tunnels.
He needed to be more careful. Yes, he had sworn to watch over her, but he was letting himself be too careless, and this had only just begun! That he had spoken to her was enough to expose him. She had not mentioned him to Giry, although she was not fool enough to accept the excuse offered in return. She would keep their relationship secret?
Their relationship.
He didn't know whether he should laugh. He didn't know what to think. Was it possible? Could it be called that? Perhaps in time. Perhaps in time, she . . . No! That way lay madness. Yet what sweet bliss it promised.
He would have to ensure that she kept their . . . meetings secret. It would not do to have the giggling ballet girls trying to brave the theatre in order to find him. Buquet was far too nosy as it was; were he to learn that a girl was meeting with the Ghost, who knows what he would do – if he laid a finger on his Christine . . . enough!
He longed for the day to pass, that he might begin shaping her voice. Hearing it would be enough to satisfy him at present.
It came to him; softly, slowly at first.
Music.
It was a music full of longing, but this time there was anticipation; the promise of things to come. Oh, this music was rich and full, not like the first piece he had played for her. That still required words, and it would have them soon enough. But not now. There was another set of notes demanding to be written.
Of course!
If he was to shape her voice, craft it to bring the world to its knees, she would need music with an equal, if not greater power. If she were to let him take her voice to the heights he knew it could reach, then it would be a crime to have it wasted on the paltry efforts of any ordinary composer.
He flew down to his lair; snatching up paper, pen and ink as he made his way to the organ. He didn't even bother to hang up his cape. He closed his eyes: picturing Christine illuminated by the moonlight, hearing her sweet song again. He let the music wash over him and guided by her light, he made his way through the dark depths that lay before him, bringing life to the black notes that began to fill the page as the sound filled the caverns.
Yes, this would be his masterpiece.
And her voice would be worthy of it.
Just as she was.