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 39
I'm sorry
Christine
Three little words. Just three simple little words and they had cut through him like nothing else.
He had heard the whisperings, the rumours. They were the same every year. Buquet was almost more trouble than he was worth. Almost. He did manage to keep belief in the Ghost alive and well – even if his version was highly embellished – which meant that he did retain some use.
This year though, Buquet seemed to be sniffing around Miss Guidacelli in particular. And he did not like the fact that the extravagant singer had yet to offer any further attacks against Christine. That she had been well and safe since, he was happy with; the fact that Carlotta was clearly not given to subtlety left him feeling very disquieted, and so his watch and care over Christine had increased.
Then he had heard the harpy gloating with her simpering companion Piangi about their plans for the Halloween weekend. They were joining the ghost hunt, but their prey was not spectral: she was after Christine. How had they found out? Buquet, of course. He must have seen Christine when she had come running to the theatre, and then paid attention. He was finally glad that Giry had insisted she move out temporarily. He would have to tell her – she'd had his head if she were to find out any other way.
And he would have to preside over the ghost hunt. He couldn't have anyone thinking the house was lived in as opposed to haunted.
Which is why he had found himself lurking in the shadows of his own home once again, watching as the handful of students led by Buquet drunkenly called out to the Ghost to come out of hiding. He could not help but laugh at their stupidity. If they really knew what they were wishing upon themselves, they would instead be clinging to silence as they cowered under their quilts back in the residences. They did not do more than the usual trespassing and littering. There would no doubt be a lot of mess to clean up in the morning, but experience had taught that it generally looked a lot worse than it really was.
Once they were all exploring the inside instead of the grounds, he ventured in as well. As usual, they were all far too inebriated or inexperienced or both to bother with stealth, and so he did not have to be overly careful. But seeing as he was here with Christine in mind, he kept to the shadows and utilised the secret doors even more inconspicuously than he did in the Ravelle.
He opened a few doors and sent his voice into several ears, causing half the revellers to decide that they'd had enough. The rest he would have fleeing in terror: stories would circulate once more and the Ghost would again be respected as both rumour and legend, attaching enough credibility to the idea that his reign would be secure, as would the house.
He heard the stairs creaking. Nobody usually ventured upstairs. Who would be so foolish? He heard three sets of footsteps. The music room was locked securely, the door was solid. There was no way anyone could get in unless they were truly determined – and they would need to be sober for that. But out of habit, he made his way up to the room he valued the most.
He saw Buquet, eager to look over this part of the house. He saw Piangi, who clearly didn't want to be there. And he saw Carlotta, leading the two men, searching for something – before heading up to the second floor.
To Christine's room.
He changed his mind. There was a room he valued more than the music room – and the three musketeers were heading straight for it. He followed them silently and, as they stumbled about trying to discern the difference between their heads and their feet, whilst simultaneously trying to engage their pia mater; he hid himself behind one of the secret panels in the walls.
What did the harpy hope to accomplish? Was she so petty as to destroy a girl's room in return for a slap in the face? He didn't doubt it would be felt as a violation compared with the minor injury and deflated ego that had been inflicted. Or did she think Christine was actually in there? That she had not been woken by all the ruckus?
Think? Carlotta?
He brushed that idea from his mind for the folly that it was. They tried opening one of the few doors that were on this floor, but only found storage. They were at the other end of the hall to him. Carlotta miraculously developed a brain cell and began dragging her two cohorts towards the correct door. Before she could touch the handle, he slammed the door they had emerged from – as only he could from that distance. The three jumped and turned in surprise, then promptly shrugged it off. He began speaking into Piangi's ear – in perfect Italian – advising him none too gently that he ought to consider leaving. The boy's face turned an interesting shade of white before he began tapping on Carlotta's shoulder to get her attention. Whilst he relayed the idea to her, a voice whispered to Buquet from behind him – a voice only he could hear.
I have warned you against this before, Buquet. My patience grows thin. Remove these children from my house lest you meet with disaster.
The man swallowed uncertainly, looking around. He'd had these tricks played on him before, but he'd never been able to best whoever was playing them. He decided that enough was enough. The girl wasn't in here – she would have been out of her room long ago if she was. His arguments for leaving joined Piangi's, but Carlotta remained immovable. She was determined to leave a message for Christine somehow. She was about to try again when the door handle seemed to speak to her.
Have a care, Guidacelli. There are worse fates than being mute. Or would you care for a taste of that?
"Did you hear that?" She whispered hoarsely.
"What?" Her compatriots asked.
"I could have sworn I heard someone talking to me."
"Lass, we've been telling you-"
"I didn't mean you, you fool." She berated the theatre hand.
"It's the Ghost, that's who it is." Buquet whispered, looking around him wide-eyed.
"Really Joe, enough is enou-" She ended on a yelp as the carpet the three were stood on was yanked out from under them. No one saw the hand that had done it, nor did they bother looking – they were a little too preoccupied as they ran down the stairs and out of there – collecting any wayward strays who weren't encouraged to leave by the flight of their leaders, or the mysterious whisperings in their ears.
Satisfied the house was now empty, he descended the stairs – far more elegantly than the others had managed – and carefully surveyed the chaos before him. So intent was he on his study that he did not see the redhead turn in wrathful indignation. He did not see her reach for one of the stray bottles that had been left. And he did not see her throw it through the window.
He heard it as the window shattered. And he felt it as the broken glass entered his arm. He held back the cry he longed to release – not of pain, but of pure rage. He watched as she blindly retreated, clearly not realising exactly what she had done. It didn't matter. She had injured him and she had damaged his house. She would pay.
Antoinette made her presence known as she stood in the door. She had seen them fleeing and had waited until they had all gone. They had worked silently on cleaning up the place each time it had happened. Neither spoke to comment on the mess, the disgrace, or the fact they shouldn't have to do it. Like with most things to do with the legend of the Ghost, nothing needed to be said between them on the matter. This time though, she spoke.
"Come."
He allowed her to lead him away to tend his injuries. She never asked: his pride wouldn't let him accept, and he never asked her: his stubbornness would dictate that he could take care of himself. His appreciation was felt though, even if it too went unspoken. As she finished tying the bandage in the back room of her house, he finally broke the silence.
"Christine is well?"
"She does not know of what happened. But she will find out soon enough. She was expecting something." She secured the binding and turned her back as he put his shirt back on and finished dressing. "Does she know you are the Ghost?" She asked over her shoulder.
"No. She still believes I am her Angel." Saying it brought to mind the way she had called him that, quelling the anger he still felt momentarily.
"Then whatever you feel about tonight's events, you must not let her see it."
"You think me a fool?" He asked, turning her to face him now that he was properly attired.
"No. But I know you, my dear. You are angry and unless you are careful, no matter what you wish, you will let it show. And then she will wonder what she has done." He closed his eyes, taking in what was being said.
"I cannot stay her angel forever, Antoinette. She needs more than a child's story. She needs more than a lie." She looked at him, the hint of tears in her eyes. He very rarely called her by her first name. It was his way of showing respect for her. The way he said it now though; it made her feel like a mother. She saw all that he could not say; all that he would not say, and she answered it.
"You have given her more than a child's story. You have answered the dearest wish of her heart. When the time comes, if you are honest and gentle with her, I do not believe she will mind." He looked at her, hope lighting his green eyes momentarily before despair clouded them once more.
"What do I know of gentleness, Madame? What does a monster masquerading as a ghost and an angel know of honesty?" He asked bitterly.
"You will find a way." She knew better than to finish that sentence the way she had for Christine. He had to acknowledge it first and of his own accord, or he never would.
A floorboard creaked upstairs. Antoinette's eyes shot upwards. The sound of footsteps echoed across the ceiling – probably one of the girls going to the bathroom. Her gaze returned to its previous level, only to be met with an empty room. She shook her head.
He would find a way. This had to end soon. He had been kept in the shadows for too long.
He looked at the damage once more. The anger surged through him in the garish light of day as he was met with the total disregard for his home again. The very idea that this mindless desecration could have been dealt to Christine as well turned the anger into rage.
He was about to head to the Ravelle and teach them the consequences of such disobedience when he heard Giry's voice calling from outside.
"Christine, be careful! Do not cut yourself on the glass." So early? What was the girl thinking? He barely had time to get the panel open when the key was turning in the lock. Had she not stopped to reply to her guardian, she would undoubtedly have caught a glimpse of him.
He watched her as soon as he had calmed his breathing. First he had been injured by a beer bottle missile, and then he had almost let himself be seen! He really was getting to be too soft. And the reason for it was currently stood immobile, mouth agape in his hallway. As she looked around, Giry put her hand on her shoulder. She absentmindedly put hers on top of it, acknowledging the silent support. Her eye caught sight of something on the floor. She moved over to it and knelt down, her hand going to her mouth.
"You said no one was hurt." She whispered.
"Perhaps one of them was careless and I did not see." Christine stood up, her eyes remained fixed on the floor – on his blood.
"He was here wasn't he? The Ghost was here. He's the reason nobody stayed very long."
"Child, ghosts do not bleed."
"Ghosts don't need a salary." The two women looked at each other, and the third party hiding beneath the stairs held his breath in astonishment. Christine moved into the living room, returning a few moments later with a very familiar looking piece of paper.
"I know you receive his notes. Will you give him this?" She asked her second mother, holding out the securely folded piece of paper. At length, Madame Giry took it. Christine retreated into the kitchen to survey the damage there and find a broom. Antoinette was too shocked to follow immediately – rather fortunate for her. When she did eventually follow, it was not without dropping the note and nudging it with her foot under the small crack beneath the stairs – where it promptly disappeared.
The two women worked quickly and well. The damage was not as bad as it looked, and was mostly superficial – with the exception of the broken window. The place was straightened up within a couple of hours; although the stench of alcohol and a few things they didn't care to guess the identity of would linger for a while.
"You can stay with us until the window can be fixed. I do not think it will take long."
"Alright." It hadn't been an offer, in spite of the delivery.
"What will happen?" Antoinette looked at her second daughter, trying to discern exactly what she was asking, wondering how she could answer.
"The Dean will be informed, as will the necessary members of staff. The damage will not go unnoticed or unpunished." Christine noticed that she had avoided mentioning any names as to who would do the informing or the punishing.
"Will everything be alright?" She asked carefully.
"In time." It was not the answer she had been hoping for, but at least it was better than an outright 'no'.
He had retreated to his lair as soon as he had taken the note. He knew Giry, and if his observations of Christine were anything to go by; they would spend the morning cleaning the place up again. He did not want Christine doing something so menial; she deserved better than that, but it would probably make her more comfortable than if the place were to 'miraculously' tidy itself.
He opened the note carefully, inhaling the scent of roses that had marked the last note as Christine's. Again it was only brief; again, the true meaning behind it was left to his speculation. It was written a little more carelessly, and it had not been addressed to him – although the use of Giry did make the intended recipient clear.
I'm sorry
Christine
Three little words. Just three simple little words and they had cut through him like nothing else.
With those three little words, she had managed to completely disarm him. His anger was gone, evaporated into nothingness. She was apologising to him for what had happened? Was it what had happened to the house, or to him? Was she apologising for the fact that it had happened or that she had been unable to prevent it? It didn't matter. The message was clear.
Where everyone else had shown blatant disregard for person or property, she was showing compassion. He sank down onto the stool in his work area and placed the new note next to the old one. He fingered his latest drawing; he had begun it after their last lesson, finding himself once again inspired towards painting more than music. Her lips were parted, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes sparkled. If he didn't know better, he'd have said she had the look of a woman in love.
But wait, he didn't know better. What did he know of love?
This compassion that Christine had shown was the closest he had come to knowing of love. At least, since Katie. But Christine's compassion was without pity, without cause or merit, and without knowledge. Hers was pure, innocent.
He turned his head to view his other latest creation.
The mannequin still needed a head. He had been waiting to capture Christine's features perfectly before he started work on that. His latest portrait might just do the trick.
Ghosts don't need a salary.
Did that mean she could accept that the Ghost was in fact a man? Even though she was living alone in his house?
When the time comes, if you are honest and gentle with her, I do not believe she will mind.
With those words, Giry had effectively given him her blessing. And refuelled his hope. She knew Christine far better than he did – reluctant as he was to admit it. He inhaled the note's scent again as he unconsciously fingered the drawing.
Yes, he had hope.
And the time for its fulfilment was drawing near.
Whew! Glad we've got that out of the way. Now we can get on with the story . . .