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 31
"Christine!"
Her head snapped up. That was only the second time he had addressed her by name since their lessons had begun – but this time it had been in anger.
"Perhaps you should return, since your attention is clearly not here where it belongs."
"Forgive me, Angel. I did not realise I had been so distracted." She could not keep the tremor out of her voice. Perhaps it was fortunate for her, for it softened him quicker than he would have liked to admit.
"Your devotion to music is clear. Then what is it that has managed to distract you so? Is it the idea of the production?"
After the managers had left, Professor Gardiner had announced Hannibal as the opera they would be working on. Christine hadn't been surprised, he had warned her after all. Then the scores had been handed out. She had seen opera scores before, but given the time constraints that had been set, the workload that loomed was phenomenal – especially for first-years.
"No. I am excited about that. I'll probably only be nervous once dress rehearsals start."
"If you are concerned about the part you will be assigned, don't be. Gardiner cannot be fool enough to deny you the lead."
"But Carlotta-"
"Has the voice of the toad she once attributed so unjustly to you. Do not worry, child. I said I would look after you, did I not?"
"Yes, Angel."
"What is it that troubles you, then?" He prodded, seeing that whatever it was, he had not managed to alleviate it.
"You assured me of your dedication to your lessons. You cannot keep that promise if you are distracted. Tell me." He continued gently as she stood there chewing her lip nervously, uncertain of how to begin.
"A friend of mine came to the school today." Silence. Usually a hint for her to continue. "He was one of my closest friends as a child. Almost as dear to me as Meg."
"He?"
"Yes. Raoul de Chagny. We used to spend our summers together whenever we could. We shared everything with each other, and with my father. He was one of the few people who understood the world we had created for ourselves. I suppose you could say he was my childhood sweetheart. But he didn't recognise me today."
"If he failed to remember you, then he is obviously not worthy of being remembered."
"Angel?" Never had she heard such bitterness in that heavenly voice.
"It is fortunate anyway."
"How could it possibly be fortunate?" She asked, incredulous.
"Unless you are faithful to Music, you cannot expect Music to be faithful to you. Were the boy to remember you, he would no doubt attempt to renew your . . . acquaintance. That would be a distraction you could ill afford."
"Meg Giry has not proved to be a distraction. What are you really saying?"
"Yours was not meant to be an ordinary life, my dear. If you wish it to be so, you cannot have both that and music. Christine, if your heart is on earth, then I will be forced to return to Heaven."
"I belong to Music, Angel. I will not abandon it again."
"Then let us continue." The voice was lighter now, one might say happy even. And Christine was confused and desolate once again.
He was jealous!
She had been mulling over their conversation since she had left the theatre. He had basically handed the lead role in Hannibal to her on a silver platter, which was somewhat daunting. How would he manage that? And he had known of her first vocal argument with Carlotta. She was becoming more and more convinced that it was the Ghost who had been watching her after all.
He had counted it fortunate that her closest friend, one of her last and probably more positive links to her father could be gone? That she had potentially lost someone else who was dear to her all over again? Then he had spoken of her heart. She had called Raoul her childhood sweetheart, but it had been so long; the chances of there being something there again were not definite. Yet he had spoken as though it were a certainty. And he had spoken with such sadness when he had mentioned leaving – such a human sadness.
He was jealous!
He had to be a man. No angel could be jealous, surely. But then, did that mean . . .? Did he . . .? She could not think about that until she knew who he was. She couldn't. There was too much else to worry about. Although it would certainly answer some questions about a certain rose collection she had been gathering.
Stop it, Christine!
She had appeased him. No matter who he was; no matter the deception he insisted on, he was still her angel. He was the only one who had fulfilled her father's promise. He was the only one who had given her music . . . which meant . . .
He was the one who had begun restoring her heart.
A childhood sweetheart?
She had been downcast all day, which had grieved him. He had thought it owing to the pressures of the forthcoming production. She had yet to perform properly since her voice had returned. But, no! She was hurt because a former love had not remembered her. He had better not remember her. Were they to reconcile, the boy would woo her away with his looks and charming words. He could not appreciate the talent that lay within her, the soul she had for music.
Christine was his!
She had said so herself. She belonged to music. She had pledged herself to him.
And he would not lose her to a mere boy! Perhaps it was time for the Ravelle to remember that it was the Ghost who ruled them and not some patron. They would remember him, they would fear him, and they would follow his instructions and meet his demands.
And as for Christine: she would remain his.