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 51
Rehearsals went by much the same as they had the previous day: in a mad dash. Whilst it had been proved that everyone knew their parts, there were still things that needed to be ironed out, and the pressure had increased seeing as they were expected to improve with each performance. The opening night was meant to impress, but it was accepted that these were students who were 'testing the waters' as it were. Christine was having a difficult time; Reyer seemed to be calling her to attention two or three times each scene. When the first intermission came, and they were allowed a break, Reyer sent Christine to her dressing room with strict instructions to get her act together. As she left, she cast yet another hasty glance towards Box 5, and yet again failed to see anything.
She shut the door behind her and sank down onto the couch, her head lowering into her hands, willing her mind to fill with thoughts of Hannibal.
"I had thought I'd taught you better than this." Christine opened her eyes to see a pair of black shoes just within her peripheral vision. She raised her head and found her Angel staring down at her, a frown on his face.
He had been watching the rehearsals as usual from his box, and had seen each time that she had looked up at him. He couldn't allow himself to be spotted though. The few rare actual glimpses of the Opera Ghost had, for the most part, been carefully planned and executed. Were he to allow Christine to see him whilst on stage, she might not be the only one, so he had decided to go against his initial resolve, which is why he stood before her now.
"If you cannot focus on the music, how do you expect to feel it, to let it work within you? How can you expect to be a worthy instrument of Music without your concentration? Where was it?"
"It was with you." She answered quietly, not once breaking her gaze. He stared down at her a moment, his features relaxing slightly.
"And will it return to the music?" He asked softly. It wasn't much of a question, seeing as there was only one acceptable answer.
"Yes." Someone knocked on the door. Immediately, he turned to leave. Christine's hand shot out and took his, preventing him from going anywhere. She stood up on her tiptoes and spoke into his left ear to avoid anyone else hearing.
"Thank you for coming." She offered with a smile. He reached up to brush a wayward strand of hair from her face, his hand lingering a few seconds longer than it needed to. A second knock came, Christine turned to the door, inwardly cursing whoever it was. When she turned back, the room was empty of anyone else.
The last few hours of rehearsals before everyone was ushered away to be dressed and made up for the performance went much better than the first. Christine didn't need correcting once, and everyone's confidence improved greatly. Furtive glances were cast to the rafters every now and again, in case the Ghost should object – they had gotten off to a rocky start, after all – but everything ran smoothly.
When the performance came, they were playing once more to a full house. Nerves were heightened as the pressure had increased. However, there were not quite so many mistakes early on, thankfully, and Christine triumphed again. She recaptured the majesty of the role perfectly, in spite of being such an otherwise quiet young girl. During the second act as Elissa and Hannibal exchanged their love, she sang with more passion and beauty, far exceeding her performance of last night. As she sang, pledging her fidelity and devotion to the warlord, she looked past Piangi and up to a certain box on the grand tier. The audience was left astounded.
For the final act and the famous aria, Christine did the unthinkable: she put the music out of her mind. Instead, she thought of another music, a kind that was overwhelming, intoxicating, and that went beyond anything Chalumeau could ever have dreamt of: she filled her mind with the Music of the Night, and as she sang Think of Me, even the severest of critics could not help but think that her voice must be reaching the very gates of heaven.
It took her longer to get through the crowd back stage at the end, after having received incredible adulation from those in the theatre. Eventually she got back to her dressing room, only to discover that she'd been pressed so much, the make-up on her arm had come off slightly. She looked at the mirror hastily, hoping that he wasn't there just yet. Hurrying over to the dressing table, she took what she needed and went behind the screen to apply it.
She paused before it could touch her skin, however, thinking about what she was doing. She had taken his mask off, exposing what he had tried to hide; and the one way she could show him that she understood, the one way she could let him know that it didn't matter, and she was hiding it. Effectively, she was demanding he give her the privacy she had stolen from him. He was probably the one person she didn't have to hide from, the one who knew what it was like, and she was instinctively refusing to place that trust in him.
The mannequin.
Why couldn't she get that out of her mind? It had been perfect. That was how he saw her. She had let him down too greatly last night; she couldn't let him down now. Perhaps when they'd gotten past that, perhaps there would come a time when she could tell him. She barely noticed the tear tracing its way down her cheek as she again thought of what she had done to her Angel, as she thought of the mask she wore for his sake.
She stepped out from behind the screen, put her things away, and picked up the rose that was lying in its usual place on the dressing table. It hadn't been there when she'd come in. When had he . . .?
"If you continue to excel this way," she whirled around to face the owner of the voice that had spoken into her left ear, "then you will soon have no need of the Ravelle. The world of opera will be at your feet."
"Thank you." She managed to whisper. He was so close! He raised his hand and caught the tear that had made its way to her chin. Ever so gently, he smoothed away the tear track, and holding her head so that she had to meet his eyes, he asked,
"What has upset you?"
"I was thinking about you." His face blanked over and he began to move his hands away. She caught them and held them where they'd been. "I'm so sorry for hurting you, my Angel. I still can't believe I was so thoughtless-" He placed a finger on her lips, silencing her.
"Christine, you are forgiven. Do not distress yourself further." He interrupted swiftly. Softening his voice, he then managed to say with some difficulty, "No one has shown such concern for me for a very long time; it is why I couldn't remain angry with you even if I were to try." They stood together for a while, smiling at each other.
"I suppose I'd better change." Christine eventually whispered. He lowered his hands and turned to leave.
"Where are you going?"
"With today's exceptions I have not set foot in this room since giving it to you, just as I have not set foot in the room you have claimed as yours in the house." He turned to face her. "I have never invaded your privacy Christine. I shall leave while you change." He said with such conviction that she couldn't believe she'd ever doubted his honour.
"How will you know when to come back?"
"I can hear when you come out from behind the screen." So saying, he left her.
Whilst she changed, he wondered on what she had been doing back there before. He had heard someone entering the room as he had approached it, and were it not for the voluminous white skirts of her dress peeking out from the screen, he would have thought that it had merely been another bouquet of flowers arriving. The room had been filled with them after each performance, and no doubt would be again tomorrow. But she had ignored them all except for one: his rose.
Something else had upset her; he knew there was more to it than she had said. Did he still frighten her? As he had held her there, he hadn't seen any trace of that in her eyes, and the tremor in her voice was not a fearful one. But he had caused it nevertheless. Perhaps all his hopes had not been destroyed after all.
Hearing her soft footfall, he risked turning. She was bent over the small mirror again, needlessly – she was never anything less than beautiful, even when she'd tried to hide it. She wore a long sleeved, deep green jumper and black trousers that complemented her figure beautifully without overtly flaunting it. He stepped out from his hiding place and silently went back over to her. He offered his rose, having never done it personally before. She placed her hand on it, but he didn't remove his.
"You came." He was puzzled by this, until he remembered that she had not had the chance to say it before. He allowed himself a smile before explaining,
"I cannot stay, Christine, nor can I ask you to come with me tonight." As her face fell, he elaborated. "There are others who have a claim on your time. I will be here tomorrow."
"I cannot stay after the show tomorrow." She answered. "There is an appointment that I have to keep, and I won't be able to any earlier in the day." It was his turn to look disappointed, though his look was edged with anger. She put her other hand over his. "What if I were to promise, as I love my father, that I will be here the day after?"
"Then I would wait until then." A knock came on the door. Christine rolled her eyes.
"I'm beginning to despise that sound." She again whispered into his ear. He smiled down at her before raising her hand to his lips, this time looking at her as he pressed a kiss on the delicate skin. Her lips parted, her eyes softened, and there was a hitch in her breathing as he lingered there a few moments. As he lowered her hand, he risked running his fingers lightly along her jaw, just as he had done when she'd fainted. She leaned into the caress, willing it to deepen.
On the second knock, he finally departed; she looking after him, watching the mirror open and close – although it was done so seamlessly, she still had no real clue how he disappeared. She eventually opened the door, to be almost knocked over by Meg. Madame Giry and Gustave soon followed, congratulating her on her performance. Gustave and Meg admired her room and the many bouquets that had been sent to her, Meg reading the cards and speculating over the worth of Christine's many admirers. She just smiled, adding non-committal replies as appropriate, all the while holding on to the red rose. Whilst this was lost on Meg, the two adults noticed.
Eventually, Madame ushered everyone out of the room, reminding them that they had dinner reservations. She cast a quick glance to the mirror before shutting the door, making sure there was no one behind it. When Gustave had asked which night he should book a ticket for, she had told him the second. The closing night would be no good, if she knew Christine's habits; the first night . . . she had thought something was going on when she had seen a familiar shadow coming and going along the various passageways of the Institution more often than usual. When she had seen him locking Christine's door, they had exchanged a silent conversation. She realised his intent, and made sure he knew not to do anything foolish, before lowering her eyes in a silent consent. She was not happy that he had kept something else hidden from her regarding Christine, but she had opened the door for this situation, even encouraged it to some extent. Though she knew he would not have done anything untoward, he could easily have done tremendous harm, even if it was unintentional. After Gustave had gone, and Meg had been settled down for the night, she would try and find out what had gone on between the two. Goodness knew she wouldn't get anything out of him on the matter.
They were just leaving the main theatre when they heard someone calling out Christine's name. They turned to see Raoul running towards them. Gustave saw Christine's grip on the rose tighten.
"Good evening, Madame, Miss Giry, Christine."
"Mr. de Chagny. This is a friend of mine, Dr. Gustave Valerius." Raoul shook the proffered hand, following Madame's introduction, his manners impeccable as ever when dealing with his elders.
"If I may, I was hoping to speak with Christine?"
"Very well. I believe we can delay a few minutes." She answered, after looking at the boy carefully. He took Christine's left arm and gently led her nearer to the building, away from the others.
"Christine, I was so worried about you. Where did you go last night?"
"What do you mean?" She asked, removing her arm from his hold.
"I thought we were going to go and celebrate your performance, but when I came back to fetch you, the door was locked and I heard a man's voice inside, even though there was nobody in your dressing room."
"I told you, Raoul, my teacher is very strict."
"But you are free tonight." He observed.
"Yes. I'm having dinner with Madame, Uncle Gustave and Meg." She took a step away, ready to leave when he took hold of her right arm. She tried to hide the wince, and obviously succeeded, because he didn't ask about that.
"Christine, tell me: has something happened? Are you in any kind of trouble? Please, I can help you." She looked at him as though he'd grown a third ear on top of his head.
"What are you talking about now, Raoul?" He showed her the note he'd received. She recognised the paper and knew who it was from. She read it, her face paling.
"I'm not in any trouble, Raoul."
"Then who sent this? Was it your teacher? Or your 'angel' perhaps?"
"Mr. de Chagny, if you'll forgive us, we have a table waiting." Madame Giry interrupted, having seen Christine's discomfort and the piece of paper she'd been handed – not to mention the dark figure that was looking down on the exchange with no small amount of venom. Raoul looked as though he wanted to object, until Christine placed a hand on his arm.
"It's alright, Raoul. I'll talk to you again."
"You promise?"
"I promise." He finally allowed Madame Giry to lead her away, slightly reassured but for the most part disappointed. Who was the man who had called himself her Angel of Music, and what had happened last night? He resolved to find out. He had only just discovered his Little Lotte again, he wasn't about to lose her.
Antoinette looked at her second daughter before they rejoined Meg and Gustave. Christine eventually met her eyes. One thought passed between them, one promise.
We need to talk.