Author's Note: To make up for the craziness of the last two chapters (short one and a cliffhanger), here's a nice long one that I think you'll enjoy. Well, there's that, and I couldn't think of an earlier place to stop that worked and would give me two chapters of a decent length each.
Thanks again to steelelf, Busanda (double thanks), Soignante, Lady Winifred, TalithaJ, WindPhoenix (double thanks), Cymbidium, mildetryth, Spectralprincess, Squealing Lit. Fan, Rose of Night and osdfnsdaf for their latest reviews. 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. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.
Chapter 29
She was in ecstasy. There was no other word for it. His speaking voice was beautiful enough to draw her through the depths of her fears; but when he sang! Surely only the Angel could wield such power in music.
"Wandering child, so lost, so helpless; yearning for my guidance."
He began gently, ensuring that she was captivated by every note – not that that would have been a problem.
"Too long you've wandered in darkness, far from my far-reaching gaze."
His voice grew stronger, singing as though such an idea was a crime.
"And though your mind beats against me; you resist, yet the soul obeys!"
His crescendo drew Christine to the front of the stage as she tried to reach her angel. She could not help it; she could not resist any longer. He drew her voice out and she let the music carry her.
"Angel of Music! I denied you, turning from true beauty. Angel of Music! My protector, come to me strange angel."
Neither of them had been expecting her to respond that way, and so the silence lingered a few moments after the last words.
"That, Christine is music."
She had sung with such passion! Her voice had yet to display any real emotion – except for fear or anxiety – since they had merely been doing exercises designed to repair the damage that time and circumstance had caused. There had been a dullness to her voice, as though she had no spirit with which to sing. But now! The first notes she had truly sung, and they had been devoted solely to him, her angel.
Angel.
She had sung for an angel. Not a man. Not the monster hidden away within the shadows. How was he ever to truly reach her so long as he remained an angel in her eyes? How was he ever to have a chance if she learnt of his deceit?
Christine.
How had she managed to confound him so? And what in the depths was he to do about it?
"It is time to see how much you have managed to learn. You will find a score on the table."
Christine moved over to the table that was usually home to her water – and her rose. The angel never greeted her, he merely began with his instructions; she had gotten used to it by now. It was enough that he was here. Though it was still dark, she managed to see the shape of the papers resting on the little table. As she drew nearer to the front of the stage again, a few of the lights came up – enough to see the music by, but not enough to illuminate much else.
Why did an angel cling to the darkness so much? Was she not meant to see the full extent of his divinity? But surely there were better methods than simply turning out the lights. Or was it that he was trying to alleviate her fear of the dark? Why not her greater fear then?
Enough!
She had sung for him at their last lesson, and the words had come not only from the promptings of Music and its angel, but also from her heart. She had sung to the Angel who was giving her voice wings, and teaching her to use them. Enough of these doubts; they could not interfere with her lessons.
She looked at the score. She almost dropped it in astonishment.
It was another song of her mother's – but this was one that had been written specifically for her. Her parents had argued over this one furiously. Her father was of the persuasion that Beethoven's work should not be meddled with to such an extent; that he original could not be compared with – provided it was performed properly. Her mother believed that the song was a thing of beauty and the arrangement was true music; that it allowed another side to Beethoven's work and ideas to be brought out. They could have argued that for days and never reach an agreement. Which is why her mother had usually ended it by singing; which is why she usually won.
Christine closed the music and clutched it to her heart. How many more reminders would she have to face? Or was this the Angel's way of returning her music to her?
"You do not look at the score. Do you find it too simple?" Came the voice; in a tone that suggested that that clearly shouldn't be the case.
"No. I know how difficult it is. But I don't need the music."
"You know this piece?" He needed to ask?
"I couldn't help but know it."
"There are few who have come across that music. You know the work of Katie O'Neill?" His voice seemed to thicken as he pronounced the name.
There was something wrong here. If the Angel had come from her father, he had to know the identity of her mother. If he was an angel and had been watching over her as he said, he would have known that anyway. As her previous doubts began to flood her mind, she decided to test him.
"I suppose you could say I was one of her greatest fans. There's little about her work that I don't know."
"Indeed." The voice was edged with disbelief. "Then let us begin."
It wasn't the violin this time. From somewhere seemingly above her came the sound of a piano. No doubt he could have made the violin suit the music, but the piano gave the song the subtlety it required, but also allowed for the grandeur of the fanfares and closing stanza. This song had always been one of her mother's favourites and as such, it had been one of hers – although she had learnt to love it for its own sake as she grew in her musical awareness. She always managed to fall under its spell.
During the initial fanfare, Christine closed her eyes, allowing the beat to carry her to the centre of the stage a little before she began.
"All believing, all embracing; Earth below and sky above. There will never be a power greater than united love."
She began to raise her hands, moving them to subtly emulate the words as her memories of the music began to take over.
"O light of hope enduring, ever in our hearts reside. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."
She switched the gestures so that the movements she made with her right hand were now made with her left and vice versa. It was something her mother had always done, and something which she had always copied – even though she didn't often realise it.
The music continued, and so did she; this time moving forwards as the rhythm dictated, certain in the music and confident in her voice.
"All as one in every nation, by our bearing will be found; Peace the true and humble treasure through compassion will be found."
She stopped at the front, her gestures stronger in keeping with the music.
"O light of clearest vision, no illusion shall divide. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."
She drew her hands across her face as she sang of the illusion – the words holding more conviction the second time around, as she thought of the possible illusion she had been allowing herself to fall under.
"O light of clearest vision, no illusion shall divide. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."
She stepped backwards unconsciously, guided by the extended bridge that again resembled a swelling fanfare. She nervously chewed on her lower lip a little. The final stanza required the use of a chorus – and there were only two voices present. She moved forward again as her cue rapidly approached.
"Side by side though oceans part us, one by one it's understood; day by day the dawn is breaking on the bond of brotherhood."
They didn't need more than two voices. His was enough to outshine any choir, and he harmonised with her and the piano perfectly. She did not need a choir backing her; she had . . . an angel?
"O light of pure intention, all dissension cast aside. Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."
The song spoke of brotherhood, of unity, of devotion; and of love that was pure and true. And as the music quietened, awaiting her solo once more; she had a choice to make: was she to question this 'angel' who raised so many doubts in her mind, or was she to sing with her angel?
"O light of pure intention, all dissension cast aside." She sang with renewed fervour, the music casting aside any doubts with her voice. Then together they sang, together their voices carried the music beyond imagination, guided by the hands of an angel.
"Now, the time to stand together, no man may alone abide."
They held the last note as the music concluded; hers richer, higher and stronger than she had thought she would manage. Her head sank as the piano ceased. They both waited until the music had died away, neither wanting to disturb the silence and risk detracting from the magic that had been woven.
"Christine." Came the whisper. He had not called her by name since their first meeting. Now, it was spoken with such . . . reverence. Had she pleased him that much? It warmed her heart and returned the smile that had brightened her face during the third verse.
He seemed to recover himself.
"A good effort, child. You know the music well, but it was not without errors. We have much to do."
She smiled softly to herself. She had caught him off guard. Ordinarily, he would stop whenever she made a mistake. Clearly she had affected him if there had been errors, yet they'd managed to make it all the way through without pausing. She tried to calm down the pride that was swelling within her; it was his playing and teaching that had done most of the work after all. But it still felt good.
They finished the song that lesson. There had been many errors, but she knew the piece inside out and as such, had corrected them quickly. Being one of her mother's songs, she did not sing it without some pain, but it was much easier to summon up the emotions to sing it as it was meant to be performed. She had inherited both her parents' musical preferences. Ode II Joy was one that managed to stir her no matter what; just as it had for her mother.
As she gathered up her rose and made her way out, having been dismissed, she could have sworn she heard an all too familiar voice whisper 'thank you'. Whether she imagined it or not, she left the building with a smile on her face.
She lay in bed surrounded by darkness. Though it still bothered her, her fears had been lessened. Whenever she found herself in the dark now, she thought of the angel and she would calm. This night, she had much to think about.
She had been over her earlier doubts more times than she would like to admit to. But new ones had been raised that were not just figments of her imagination. If the angel claimed to know her father, he could not help but know her mother. And surely he should not have needed to be told why she knew that piece. And he certainly would not have doubted her – she had not imagined that inflection in his voice.
If he truly was an angel, why had she caught him off guard? If he knew both Music and her so well, why was he surprised by her performance? Why did he cling to the darkness if he belonged in heavenly realms filled with light? Why did he display reverence towards a mere mortal; why impatience, anger frustration?
Why was he so . . . human?
Surely no human could possess such a voice, or play with such skill. She had heard some of the greatest musicians in the world; and even were he to have a bad day, she felt certain the Angel could still outshine them. Surely no human could weave music so perfectly that it filled your soul and consumed your senses.
His skills and abilities were without question.
The same could not be said of his 'divinity'.
She lay there in the blackness considering all this. She recognised that she wanted it to be true so badly, it would be easy enough to deceive her. But the things he had said in their first conversation! There were things he had spoken of that no one could have known without knowing her . . . or without having watched her.
Was the 'Angel' the Ghost?
She lived in his house, attended the Ravelle which he haunted; and the stories she had been told did indicate a tremendous passion towards music in him. It would explain how he was able to watch over her. She had heard the stories circulating about him – the new students were eager to learn of the resident 'novelty'. The few rare sightings of him that didn't make him sound fresh out of a cheap horror film depicted him as being . . . a man.
Was the 'Angel' a man?
If the Angel was, in fact, a man; then he was exceptionally gifted. If the Angel was a man, then that would explain the gaps in his knowledge, the emotions he displayed on occasion. If this 'angel' was a man, then he was not the true Angel of Music. And he had lied to her.
Another thought struck her.
Had the true Angel of Music been teaching her, then it would only have been as part of a temporary arrangement. The Angel of Music only ever visited the ones he chose. Had it been the true Angel, then he would be leaving once she was ready. If her mysterious tutor was the Ghost, or a man; it was not a visit. She might not lose her new guide and guardian once her voice had been trained again. She might not have to suffer the pain of loss so horrifically all over again.
If her tutor was deceiving her, then perhaps her father's promise had been kept after all. True, he had not sent the Angel of Music in his stead. But that didn't matter so much.
He had sent her angel.
He made his way back to his lair, still in something of a daze. She had known it! More than that she had performed it exactly the way she had. Thanks to his teaching, she had even managed to exceed Katie.
And he would not have believed anyone capable of that.
Oh, Christine.
He closed his eyes, drowning in the memories of the music: both his earliest ones, which brought tears of pain to his eyes; and his newest ones, which let them fall as tears of joy. She truly was the angel, not he. But he could not allow her to return to Heaven when she brought so much light to his hell.
He looked at the score that rested on his organ. He had made much progress; drawing on all the music he had created over the years, and on the music that had been inspired within him of late. He was pouring everything about him into it. It would be the embodiment of his life's work, his greatest achievement.
His gift for Christine.
He looked towards one of the natural alcoves created by the caverns; it was the one where he usually wrote his notes and built his miniatures of the Ravelle to help keep an eye on the progress of their productions. He looked at what he had stored there. He had seen it hidden away in a corner of the costume department. The first thought that had come to mind was Christine as she had stood in the graveyard. He remembered the dress that she had worn and had seized it on a whim.
The white silk would look perfect on her after all.
In the moments when he rested from music and haunting the place, he had spent his time drawing her: both as he had seen her and how he imagined her, in the greatest roles of opera that she would play. He began a new one now.
He knew what the silk would become.
In time, he would find a way to tell her that he was not the Angel she had wished for. By then, she would be as much under his spell as he was under hers. Then she would truly return to Music.
Then she would truly belong to him.