Author's Note: Thanks to KyrieofAccender, Soignante, Busanda, Rose of Night, mikabronxgirl, scarletghost13, montaquecat (double thanks), Lady Winifred, treblmaker7, mildetryth (major thanks and welcome back!), steelelf, Spectralprincess (double thanks), Passed Over and LorieOh for their latest reviews.
Sorry for the delay, but I HATE writing filler, so I was kind of put off writing anything for a little while. However, I think I know what's happening next, so I should be a bit more encouraged. And there was a slight delay when I found out I owed you a double update - had to get it written. Well, without further ado/delay/me babbling/whatever, here's the first of two chapters for you. 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. 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 59
Though he had been delighted at her disappointment when he'd suggested they return that night, he had nevertheless insisted. She did have classes to attend which, although hopelessly inadequate compared to what he could teach, were something of a necessity. That and he knew that if she stayed too long, he would not be able to let her leave, especially after all that had transpired between them over the course of Hannibal's run.
When he had finally broken Christine's sweet embrace – and was certain his tears had long since dried – he had suggested one of their music lessons after they had eaten. He still couldn't believe it: never before in his life had he shed tears of joy. When Katie had found him, shown him the first scrap of kindness he had ever known, his tears had been of immense . . . relief, as though the cage his monstrosity of a face forced him into had finally been opened. In Christine's embrace, it was though he had at last been able to step free of those bars and into the warm light that was his rose's smile. No matter how many times she called him 'Angel', he could never hope to emulate that quality as she did.
They had spent the rest of the day in music lessons which had consisted of the usual vocal exercises, and an introduction to Il Muto – the next show the Ravelle would be producing – which he was pleasantly surprised to discover she already knew, as had been the case with Hannibal.
"Either you have a rather more diverse taste in music than I had anticipated, or you somehow managed to find the time during rehearsals to read the score." He commented.
"Or I had a very encouraging father." Turning from the music to look at her, he was surprised that for the first time, she mentioned her lost parent with such ease. "As soon as we got the letter, saying I'd been invited to audition, he got in contact with Madame Giry. Papa insisted I was at least familiar with every opera and show on their shortlist for the next two years."
"A lot of work in such a short space of time." He commented, a slight criticism evident in his voice at the pressure that must have been on her with such a workload, coupled with the audition.
"From as far back as I can remember I've at least been aware of how much work is involved in a stage production. It was his way of lightening the load – a little."
Uncertain of what to say in response to her breaking voice, he brushed his fingers against hers. Taking them, she gave them a gentle squeeze in gratitude. Their lesson contained many such fleeting touches and caresses. He was awed that she felt no fear in touching him; that she accepted him enough to both give and receive those brief contacts.
And it was these that leant him no hesitation in wrapping his cloak around her once they'd exited the main theatre. Again, he had used the way she knew as opposed to the passage that directly connected the two homes. He had no idea what state they would find the house in, given that with worrying about her he hadn't had chance to evict the intruders. She leaned against him slightly, grateful for the warmth – she was effectively still in her pyjamas after all. They kept to the shadows, remaining invisible as they made their way slowly back. Though she didn't know how he did it, she trusted him regardless, and never moved from his side.
Her hand covered her mouth as she choked back a horrified gasp.
Several of the downstairs windows were broken, the area immediately surrounding the house looked as though a herd of elephants had had a dance class recently, and the door was wide open, showing a little of the disarray inside.
He placed his hands on her shoulders, trying to still her, but she tore herself from his grasp anyway and ran inside. Silently, he followed, his senses fixed on anything that could betray another presence within. Christine's blonde mane made her easy to follow in the darkness – not that she could have lost him anyway – and he was not surprised to find her down the little corridor he had plucked her from last night. Locking the door to the room she had obviously just been inside, she turned to him with a small smile, her eyes saying that everything was OK.
She did not receive the same encouragement from his gaze.
Approaching him, she silently asked what was wrong. Raising his head as though listening for something, he then lowered it so his lips were mere inches from Christine's ear. Obediently, she tipped her head slightly to better allow his communication.
"They may not have left yet." She froze in horror at the possibility. "Wait here. I will check this floor quickly." Receiving a nod of assent, he swiftly disappeared into the shadows. Christine leaned against the door, immediately wishing she had argued and stayed with him. But it seemed she never could argue with that voice. Relief flooded through her when he soon appeared by her side again – even if he did make her jump a bit.
Taking off her shoes and following his lead, they made their way silently up the stairs. She was somewhat disappointed when he didn't unlock the door she didn't have a key to; merely pressing it in a couple of places to satisfy himself that all was well. Turning her head to see that the same could be said of the rest of the floor, her eyes fell on the other set of stairs. They were littered, the carpet torn and marked with a few burns that were presumably from the cigarette stubs lying around. It was the first sign of real damage they'd seen, the mess on the ground floor once again being mostly superficial.
Realising what was up there, what they could have . . . unable to hold back the small cry, she ran up the stairs and down the corridor to her room.
His head whipped round as soon as he heard her. Following her with as much speed as he could, he found himself on the threshold of her room. But no Christine in sight. The room was in a shambles. Things had been tossed carelessly all over the place. Dirt and litter had been trodden in everywhere. He could barely see the floor, but based on the very few times he had seen the room since Christine had moved in, he knew it was through no fault of hers. Oddly enough, there was a further addition: a pile of boxes in front of the bed. And a rather familiar pair of feet, shifting about slightly. He was about to call to the owner of those feet, when the rest of her began to appear from under the bed.
Carefully tugging what turned out to be a worn, old violin case, she checked where it was fastened, and seeming satisfied that all was as it should be, began to gently dig through the contents of the pocket on the front. There was a rather prominent lump there, which she drew out. It was two boxes – one of which he recognised as containing the gift he had given her. She had been unable to wear the pendant during rehearsals or the performance. The past few days had been the only times he had seen her without it. The other box was older and vaguely familiar, though if asked, he would have been unable to say why.
She opened the newer of the two, and breathed a sigh of relief when she saw the pendant resting there, undamaged. As she took it out, she finally realised that she was not alone. Raising her head to his watchful stare, she held out the delicate silver chain, silently, tentatively asking the small favour. Slowly, he crossed the threshold – mindful of his promise to both his rose and her guardian – and knelt by her side, removing his gloves. She turned slightly, allowing him access to the back of her neck. Softly, he brushed aside the silken locks, resisting the urge to bury his hand or his nose in them, then took the proffered chain and fastened it about her neck, smoothing it out across her shoulders once it was secure, his hands lingering a moment longer than was necessary.
Thanking him with her eyes – hoping it would suffice as her breath seemed to have gone all of a sudden – she put a hand on his, silently granting him permission to stay; silently asking him to. He settled himself beside her, curious as to what lay in the other box. The caress she gave it was barely a whisper, not dissimilar to the ones he had given her in the past. She opened it as though afraid of what she would find within. The moonlight coming in through the window illuminated the small object.
It was Katie's ring.
There was only a short period of time when she had failed to wear it, and then the ring of another had been on her finger. With that exception, even during performances her finger had never been bare. Once more, tears shone in Christine's eyes.
"It was my mother's. She never took it off." Her voice was so ethereal, he wasn't certain who she was speaking to, or if she merely needed to say the words. They sat there a few moments; both thinking of the woman who used to wear the ring, the woman whom they had each lost, the woman they each wished they could see just once more.
At length, having watched a tear trace a glistening path slowly down her cheek, he lifted her right hand and reached for the ring. Asking permission with his eyes, she looked in wonderment, unconsciously nodding slightly. He took the silver band and gently slid it onto her ring finger. It was a perfect fit. The Celtic knotwork looked exquisite on her delicate hand; the silver against her pale flesh in the moon's glow looked unearthly. Much akin to the way she looked at him when he met her eyes. She was staring with . . . reverence? It was the same burning way she had looked at him as he had shown her the Music of the Night.
And it took his breath away.
He didn't understand what he had done, but he knew without a doubt that he would never take it back as Christine placed her lips against his cheek, lingering there longer than she had before. Then she wrapped her arms around his neck and nestled her head just underneath his chin.
Oh no, he wouldn't be taking it back.
As he wrapped his arms around her, she let out yet another sigh. Though out of contentment for being in her Angel's protective embrace once more, it was laced with some confusion. Having her mother's ring on was a tremendous thing for her. It meant that her mother really was gone – something she had accepted quite a while ago – and it also meant that she was no longer a little girl. The ring of the O'Neill women was very important to those who wore it, and it was very rare for a man to ever have hold of it. For a man to put the ring on her finger was all of two steps from another kind of ring – one that went on the left hand. For that man to be her Angel; it was an unwitting reminder of the mannequin that he had so carefully kept hidden all the while she had been down there this last time. Was it the embodiment of his hopes for her? Was he this very moment wishing he had been placing that other kind of ring on her finger? Is that why his disappointment in her had been so marked when she had put off meeting with him? Did he expect her to feel the same way?
The questions raced around her mind until she felt her Angel's embrace tighten a little. With the exception of the first time they had met, when he had been weaving the spell of his music, he was always so hesitant to give any physical contact unless she encouraged him. Why had he been so confident then, but not now? Was it to do with . . . what she had done? She didn't know. All she knew was that she never felt so safe as she did in this moment, wrapped in her Angel's arms. In this moment she felt cherished, treasured. And she couldn't help but hope that she wasn't the only one.
Whether either of them realised it or not, with that one simple action, he had irrevocably bound her to him – and with a bond stronger than any that had previously been forged; a bond that neither of them would realise the power of until it was tested.