Author's Note: Thanks to montaquecat (double thanks), jeevesandwooster, treblmakr7 (double thanks), scarletghost13, mikabronxgirl, Soignante, KyrieofAccender, jeevesandwooster, jtbwriter, zeeksmom, Busanda, TouchingTrusting, Lady Winifred (double thanks), Spectralprincess (double thanks), Timeflies and mildetryth for their latest reviews.
A few people have been asking about the ring, so I will just try and clarify: the ring is not an engagement ring, but an indication on the lady's side that one would be appreciated. Our favourite Phantom does not know the meaning of the ring, just that Katie was never really without it and it obviously had signifcance to her, therefore it's important to him. That he put it on Christine's finger was a reminder of the hints (subtle or otherwise) she's had of his true feelings for her. There's been no declarations or promises knowingly or unknowingly made. And it isn't a Claddagh ring (thanks for the heads up though, mikabronxgirl). The possessiveness that came at the end of the last chapter is just as a result of all that has happened, the way Christine clings to him, and also there's something of Katie's promise in there which I have mentioned a few times (hope that helps, Spectralprincess).
OK, apologies for the delay with this chapter, but as you'll see it wasn't easy to write. And I know I owe a double update, but my life has been insane this week with packing. Hopefully the fact that this is easily my longest chapter so far and that the cliffhanger is nowhere near as evil as the one in the next would have been will make up for the fact that you're only getting one. I'd write the next, but it's very late as I type this, I still have reviews to reply to and I'm moving to Scotland tomorrow. On that note, if I don't update again in the next two days, then this story will officially be on a one week hiatus whilst I get settled in at uni and try to get back to a point where I can do regular updates again. Advanced apologies if that does happen. I promise, the next chapter will be another long one with lots of plot and action in it. I think you'll be able to guess at a lot of the content once you've read this though.
Thanks for your patience with me, and I hope you 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 64
For the sake of amicability between her two guardians, Christine agreed that she wouldn't spend the night down there again unless absolutely necessary; Antoinette and her masked charge reached a somewhat grudging truce, although it was owing mostly to their long relationship and that they both sought Christine's happiness. Neither of them actually apologised, but he agreed to be stricter with when their lessons ended, and she did not object when she found out that his singing Christine to sleep was not just a one-time occurrence. There was still some degree of unease between the two – they were both too proud and stubborn to let the disagreement simply slide – but as they ignored it for Christine's sake, it soon faded of its own accord into the old, familiar, mutual respect they had for one another.
The house was repaired within days, and when Christine received word that she could move in again, it was as good as new. There was very little of hers that had been damaged, seeing as most of her truly personal possessions were kept either in her room or under lock and key. But it was reassuring to see all as it should be, especially when she read the note from the Dean saying that they'd taken the liberty of replacing the locks with more secure ones. Reading between the lines – the tone of the letter bidding as much – she went to the desk and took out a sheet of paper, writing a note of her own to the person she knew to be responsible for that last detail, which was received with much appreciation.
After that week, Christine's lessons – as promised – became focussed on Il Muto, and particularly on the role of the countess. Conveniently, that was when the Vocal Performance classes began to actually practice the various parts. Neither Christine nor her dark tutor were particularly fond of the opera, and Christine was always reluctant to sing the laughing song from Act 1, even if it was the countess' first main aria. When asked why, she replied that it didn't feel right laughing at the man she was supposed to have pledged love and faithfulness to – even if it was in character. They had spent the rest of that lesson developing her voice through his music. When she added her own to it, the results were quite simply beyond words, though if asked, she would have said it was his music inside of her and that it wasn't in fact of her own making. If asked, he would have said nothing, merely gazed at the mannequin with the hopes of a repeat performance – or better.
Christine never found out what exactly Dr Poligny had done about the 'Hunt' besides seeing that the house was repaired, but she knew it couldn't have been pleasant for those concerned. She learnt to stay out of the way of Joe Buquet – not exactly difficult seeing as she only went to the main theatre nowadays for her lessons and nobody was ever nearby then. The few times she did see him, she was with someone else, but the looks he shot her were very disturbing, as though he were threatening or promising something. And it wouldn't be good.
Staying out of Carlotta's way was not such an easy task, seeing as they had exactly the same classes. Professor Gardiner did manage to keep them apart as much as possible though, without making it too obvious what he was doing. And Christine wasn't the only grateful one.
There were no illusions this time about the pressure everyone was under. It was the Ravelle summer production, the grand finale of the year which everyone – not just parents and trustees – anticipated with great relish. Everyone except the students, who were facing enormous amounts of stress. Not only did they have all their studying and homework to do for the theory aspects of the course, not only did they have yet another production to pull together, but they had to go beyond the standards they had set with the last, and learn absolutely everything that was relevant. Christine found this slightly more bearable than most of her peers, seeing as she had learnt two parts last time – three if you count the dancing. This time though, she was learning every part that was soprano, be it chorus, ensemble or solo. And seeing as everyone was in the same boat, nerves were fraught within a week. Rivalries grew more potent as the competition for the main parts was still being fought and all in all, the second half of the year fulfilled all the horror stories the first years had been told when they'd arrived – though most had refused to believe.
Once more, she found her lessons to be a haven after a trying day of all of the above, even when faced with the full force of her Angel's perfectionism. Though neither of them thought much of the chosen opera, nevertheless, Christine was still expected to shine – and not only that, but excel beyond her previous performances. Every now and again though, she was granted a reprieve when it became apparent that she was being pushed too far. Those rare hours were treasured by both, because those were the 'lessons' when all else was pushed aside except for their Music. That was when they recaptured the magic of their first meeting, but without the uncertainties they had each experienced that night. They left her even more exhausted than her usual lessons, but it was a better kind of tired, seeing as she was giving her all freely to something she cherished, as opposed to being pushed to a similar standard for an 'unworthy' opera.
Those weeks were almost perfection for Christine and her Angel. Had it not been for the inconvenience of the Ravelle, there would have been no 'almost' about it. For their lessons, he resumed his old habit of teaching her from behind the mirror, but once they were done, he would appear so that they could spend the rest of their allotted time together. Sometimes they talked, sometimes they sang, and sometimes he just held her when she asked after a particularly trying day. He always disappeared before Madame Giry had the door open, and she always knew, but it was never mentioned. It was as though they had returned to the innocence of old times, only it was better.
But the inconvenience of the Ravelle remained.
Three weeks before the performances were to begin; the cast and positions were finally announced. It might have seemed a bit late, given that the cast and crew were only students, but they were all prepared by that time for whatever role they might be given. There were no trials or auditions, given that everything was allotted based on overall progress and merit for the year, as opposed to one instance or display.
Ubaldo Piangi was inevitably given the role of Don Attilio, the count. The other tenors were all too aware that he was the better voice – even if his diction and pronunciation often left much to be desired.
The role of the countess was given to Carlotta.
And Christine was Serafimo, the page boy. The silent part.
She was partly relieved: the silent role wouldn't be as much work, and the year had been thoroughly draining. That was only a small part of her, however; mostly, she was filled with dread. As soon as the roles had been announced, Carlotta had turned into a full-blown Prima Donna again. And this time her gloating didn't only consist of looks directed Christine's way. Having to go on stage in front of another potentially full house and pretend she was in love with that was not something Christine relished. What really bothered her though was what her Angel would say and more to the point, what the Ghost would do, when he found out that his instructions had been disobeyed yet again.
When she got to her dressing room for her lesson, there was a distinct chill in the air. What was even more noticeable was the dark figure pacing at the far end of the room. It was also surprising for two reasons: firstly, he had kept his word and refused to enter her dressing room without her permission and secondly, he usually did not put in a physical appearance until the end of their lessons to avoid distracting her. As soon as she entered though, his pacing had ceased, he had moved towards her and taken her hands.
"Pardon my intrusion, Christine, but I knew how disappointed you must be."
"It's alright, my Angel, I'm glad you're here." She said to reassure him on the first point. It didn't matter how many times she said those words or the like, they always succeeded in warming his heart.
"Come." He guided her to the couch they so often seemed to share – even if it had previously offended – and helped her with her coat and bag.
"Do not worry, Christine. They may have decided to once again flout my instructions, but this oversight will be corrected. You will be playing the Countess."
"Angel, perhaps after Hannibal, it might be an idea to humour them this once."
"No! To humour them in this will only delude them into thinking they control this Opera House and I will not have that. Just as I will not have you in the shadow of that undeserving banshee." She didn't have to ask who he was referring to; he never bothered with politeness when it came to Carlotta.
"But if it's an opera you don't approve of-"
"Be that as it may, it is still no excuse for allowing that harpy to pollute the stage when there is a far more ideal role for her." She couldn't fully hide her grin, knowing he was referring to the role of the page boy. "You will be playing the countess; I promise you that, Christine." Looking into his eyes, she saw how earnest he was and knew that any other arguments would be as futile as the ones she had offered, so she said the words he was waiting for.
"Yes, my Angel." Satisfied, he nodded and moved over to the music stand, arranging the sheets there for her. He was about to disappear behind the mirror, as was his custom, when Christine stopped him.
"Stay?" He looked to her in question, ready to grant her request, but intrigued by it nevertheless. "It's been a difficult day, and you don't need to hide from me. I won't be distracted."
Holding out his hand, he brought her to stand in front of him in the position that now came almost as a reflex to her. He took her through their usual warm-up exercises, and though a little hesitant at first, her voice seemed richer than usual – and they both knew why, even if neither would have said as much. When he turned the page for the aria they would be studying – the dreaded laughing song from Act 1 – if such a thing were possible he could feel Christine rolling her eyes.
"I do not care for the song either, and it doesn't become you, but therein lies the challenge." Christine turned to him, intrigued. "You must either discover some beauty within the music, or add a charm to it that will make it bearable."
"Miracles aren't my department, Angel." She answered somewhat ruefully. He lowered his head to her ear.
"Then let us see if I am worthy of that title or not." He whispered, lowering his voice to the one he had used to charm her that first night, the one that she never failed to obey. A glazed look was in her eyes when he raised his head and turned her back to the music. Instead of the self-satisfied haughtiness that usually accompanied the song, Christine gave it an innocent air of freedom, as though she truly were in love and was giddy at the thought of being able to show it. When she finished, her eyes were closed and she was leaning against her delighted teacher slightly – as usually happened when she gave herself up to Music.
Lowering his lips to her ear once more, whilst she was still transfixed, he whispered.
"You would deny them that joy, Christine? You would allow them to suffer through the squawking of a peacock instead of gracing them with Music?" She turned.
Having sung that piece properly, having satisfied her dark tutor's wishes, she finally understood why he wanted her in a role that neither of them appreciated: to show there could be more to it when given into the right hands – a skill that was the difference between a performer and a Musician; between one who merely recited and one who brought the notes to life.
"I understand, my Angel. I just worry." He put a finger on her lips before she could elaborate.
"Don't. Have faith in me."
"I do." That was the problem.
When it came to the workings of the theatre – or more specifically, the casting – she knew that it was not her Angel she was talking to, it was the Opera Ghost. And having seen his handiwork, she no longer brushed off the legends about him as being exaggerated fancies of drunken stagehands; she couldn't help but wonder exactly how much truth was in them. She had faith in the Opera Ghost, but it was not in a good way: what happened at the Hannibal dress rehearsal was bad enough, what he would do on having his instructions ignored a second time she could only imagine with dread. But unless something did happen, she would retain her hope in her Angel.
Due to the previous schedule, rehearsals were – amazingly – something of a breather for all those concerned. Seeing as everything had been assigned, everyone's focus had been narrowed, meaning their workload had been lightened. It still demanded a tremendous amount of time and effort, but at least they'd been granted some reprieve. Although having said that, they didn't feel the relief as much as one might have thought: actual rehearsals meant that the pressure was really on.
The stress of it all meant that tempers were short, patience was thin and the overall attitude was far from amicable. For Christine, this meant that whenever Carlotta felt she had something to complain about – which seemed to happen every other minute – then she was the scapegoat, the one Carlotta turned to if she felt like venting some anger or spitefulness. Were she not drawing strength from the fact that her Angel was nearby and she would be with him at the end of rehearsals, most days she would have found herself in tears by lunchtime.
Whilst he hated seeing her so upset, part of him could not help selfishly delighting in the harpy's jibes: for with each one, Christine was being driven more and more into his arms. It was a fact he was all too grateful for, seeing as the boy had appeared again, and was frequenting the theatre far more often, supposedly to view the progress of the opera on behalf of his family. The amount of time he spent watching Christine soon dispelled that notion. De Chagny did try to remain discreet – which he was grudgingly given some small measure of credit for, but nevertheless he soon started overhearing gossip about his Christine and the young patron, which led him to once again affirm his rules about 'distractions'.
Christine had noticed when Raoul appeared, and couldn't help but notice that he stayed. It was only when she overheard titbits of gossip that she began to wonder at his reasons. When her Angel instructed her about avoiding anything which could distract her from her music, she knew where it had come from. His jealousy coupled with her fears about the Opera Ghost did leave her particularly anxious, but she kept hoping that she would be proved wrong; something that was shaken when she questioned him about his rule.
"Angel, may I ask you something?" They had just finished one of their lessons. The day had been fairly light, as Carlotta had spent most of it being fitted for the ridiculously elaborate costumes. As tended to happen when she began a conversation that way, the temperature dropped a couple of degrees as her Angel awaited her question.
"If it was strictly within the theatre, I was wondering if I might see Raoul sometimes?" He flinched as though he'd been struck. The look he gave her was so stony he might have been made of marble.
"You are asking my consent for you to be distracted from your work by one who has no appreciation for music or the greatness you could achieve?" He began slowly, but by the time he'd finished, his speech had quickened and though his voice did not raise in volume, it certainly became more chilling. Clearly he was not expecting an answer.
"Angel, I won't let him be a distraction."
"You know my instructions and yet you continue to argue against them?" He asked, incredulous.
"Will you at least let me explain?"
"Explain what? That our young patron wishes to make the most of his position and you have no objections?" Christine's face froze in horror at what he was suggesting about Raoul, and herself.
"Is that what you really think of me?" She whispered. He realised his mistake and was filled with self-loathing that he had once again allowed his anger to push Christine away.
"No. Explain why you ask now." He wearily conceded, by way of apology.
"I overheard some of the dancers gossiping about why Raoul is here, and if there's any truth in what they think, then he won't go away if I carry on ignoring him. He was worried during Hannibal when I . . . when he couldn't find me, and when he got your note." He looked up in surprise, having forgotten that the boy had shown her his missive. "I know him, Angel: so long as he thinks he has reason to be worried about me, then he won't leave it alone. If I were to see him during some of my breaks; that will probably satisfy him." He considered her words.
"And if it doesn't?" She slowly approached him and twining her fingers with his, she looked into her eyes with all the conviction she possessed and answered.
"I won't let him be a distraction. I'd rather not lose an old friend, but I definitely don't want to lose my Angel." Though he held her hand, he couldn't resist raising his other and cupping her cheek, checking that this was real, that his precious rose was declaring her preference for him above a handsome, wealthy boy more suited to her in both age and temper.
"Just within the Opera House?" She nodded. "Very well, Christine. I trust you to keep your word." She smiled, taking hold of his hand when he would have moved it away, keeping it in place.
"Thank you, my Angel. I won't fail you."
Raoul was, of course, delighted to have his Little Lotte back. Though she was a little distant at first, the awkwardness soon passed and they were chatting away like the old friends they were – when she had a spare moment. He pressed her time and again to see her outside of the theatre, but always she had too much work or needed the rest. When he would ask if he could walk her home, there was always some excuse. Christine didn't particularly enjoy feeding him those lines. Granted, she never lied – she couldn't do that to a friend – but she couldn't help feeling that she was leading him on. And no matter how much she wished to fully renew her old friendship, if ever he became 'too friendly' she would instantly become aware of a certain phantom nearby. She couldn't deny how much she had found herself clinging to her Angel, but it seemed with every passing day she was becoming more aware of his possessive streak, which inevitably put a damper on whatever relationship she might have with Raoul.
When the final rehearsals came, everyone was in something of a nervous frenzy. Apparently the Ghost had sent another note to the managers, but as far as anybody could tell, nothing was being done about it. Everyone remembered what had happened during the last production and kept watching Carlotta – who relished the limelight no matter what the reason for it – waiting to see if something would happen. Christine also found herself to be the subject of scrutiny and gossip. Word had spread from the previous notes that the Ghost favoured her and many were beginning to wonder why and what, if anything, would come of it. As soon as Raoul picked up on this, he tried spending more time with her. Whilst the protection he surreptitiously attempted to offer was sweet, she couldn't help but find it slightly annoying that he was turning into the distraction she'd been warned against. It was unnerving, nevertheless, as she couldn't help but wonder if there would be some need. No. Her Angel would never hurt her. It was the thought of what he might do to others that made her shudder.
The production went fairly smoothly. A visit from Luciana Guidacelli during the final dress rehearsal caused a flurry of activity and attention to be lavished on Carlotta to please the celebrated patron. Luciana looked on, beaming proudly as her daughter brazenly flaunted herself, every inch the proud and domineering countess, her performance proving that the role was won through title or name as opposed to any real virtue – much like her character.
Certain of her role, certain of her mother in the audience, certain of the support of the Ravelle, Carlotta didn't bother to hide her disdain for her rival, as she took every opportunity to push her or trip her or anything else to show her dominance and generally make Christine's time on stage as uncomfortable as possible. Christine was actually grateful her part was silent, for otherwise her voice certainly would have been either blazing with outrage or faltering with the tears that were begging to fall. As it was, she merely took it in her stride, refusing to allow it to damage the performance she could give. At least until Carlotta turned so violently Christine couldn't stop herself from falling to the stage floor. Reyer's rebuke didn't help any, not coupled with Carlotta's look of triumph that put Christine in mind of a hyena – goodness knows the hyena would have sounded better.
When the rehearsal finally ended and they were allowed a little time to 'relax' before being called into wardrobe and make-up, Christine all but flew to her dressing room, forgetting her usual attempts at discretion after Carlotta had pushed past her one last time. As soon as the door was shut, she called out.
"Angel?"
"I am here, Christine." His voice was tight, as though he was in a particularly unpleasant mood. Nevertheless, she voiced her request.
"Angel, please, I need to see you."
He stepped out from behind the mirror, and his face was – as she'd guessed – as black as his cape. Immediately, he moved to stand in front of her and took her face in his hands. Were it not for the reserve he usually showed, and the fact he had never made such a move, Christine thought he would have kissed her then. Instead, he studied her features.
"This is intolerable. That banshee has upset and tormented you without the slightest censure for long enough."
"Angel, what is the matter?" His face softened.
"This wretched production has been difficult for you, to say the least, and yet you ask me what is wrong?" He smiled down at her warmly, which lightened her heart no end; his smiles were so rare.
"Tell me." She encouraged.
"Those fools have ignored all my instructions, my salary has not been paid for months and my box has been sold." He moved away from her, beginning to pace as he finally gave vent to some of his frustration. "This never would have happened under the previous managers; they knew their place and stayed in their offices. These latest imbeciles don't even know the difference between Beethoven and Bach and yet they dare to think they can dictate the run of my Opera House!"
He was silenced from any further railing against the managers when a pair of soft arms wrapped themselves around his waist. As Christine laid her head just underneath his chin, he looked down at her before he returned the impromptu, but very familiar embrace.
"Much as I appreciate it, to what do I owe this honour?" His voice spoke into the mass of curls.
"You sounded like you needed a hug. I know I do." She added the last part a little sheepishly. She could feel his smile as it returned; satisfied that she had calmed him once more.
"Thank you, my dear. But what I also need is for my Opera House to be run properly." She shifted slightly so she could look up at him. "Don't worry, it will all work out. I promised you the role of the countess, and you will have it. I will not allow such preparation to go to waste."
"But, Angel, the performance starts in a few hours-" Silencing her, he put a finger on her lips.
"Do you doubt me?" Obediently, she shook her head, worried. Someone knocked on the door, calling her to wardrobe. With one final instruction not to worry and a renewal of his promise, he turned to leave. As he was about to step through the mirror, Christine called to him.
"Angel, please don't do anything you'll regret." She said softly, unable to believe she was daring such words; unable to hold them back any longer.
"And why would I regret correcting these mistakes?" He turned and looked at her anxious face. And he knew exactly what he could end up regretting.
"Do not worry, Christine." He whispered as the knock sounded again.
Once she'd gotten out of wardrobe, Christine at last had another reason to be glad of her part – the others having worn thin lately for some reason. The page boy's shirt, waistcoat and trousers were far easier to move in than any of Elissa's costumes had been, and was certainly nowhere near as ridiculous as the countess' – although she still had to wear a dress at first, and pretend to kiss Carlotta!
As she headed back to her dressing room, she couldn't help but wonder what her Angel had meant when he'd said she would have the role of the Countess. The performance was going to start far too soon for any drastic alterations to realistically be made, she was in costume for the silent part, and changing would quite simply at this stage be ridiculous.
So lost in her thoughts was she that she didn't hear the heavy footsteps behind her until a hand caught her on the shoulder and pushed her into one of the passages hidden by the spare scenery. Christine looked up to orientate herself and was horrified to find herself staring at the leer of Joseph Buquet.
"So you're the Phantom's bit of fluff then? Thinks he can have us all running around over a chit like you, eh? Oh don't deny it. I've heard the two of you together, talking, plotting." Bending down so that his face was inches from hers, he ran his finger down her cheek before moving his hand lower. "Mind, he's got taste, I'll give him that. What's say you let old Joe in your secret, find out what's got the Ghost so taken then?" He said, covering her mouth with his hand as he started grabbing hold of her.
He was too strong and too big by far for her to fight him off, but it didn't take him reaching under her shirt for her to try anyway. Tears formed as he began groping her in places no man had ever touched and she felt the old darkness clouding her mind. As he reached for her trousers, something inside of her snapped, refusing to sink into that darkness and torment she had been saved from and she bit down hard on the hand covering her mouth. Joe cried out in pain, striking her across the face as he cursed her. He was about to try again when he was knocked aside.
"Christine."
The horror-stricken young girl looked up into the eyes of her guardian and took the offered hand. Once she was up, Madame Giry looked down at the Master of the Flies as he scrambled to his feet.
"Surprise, surprise. The Ghost's lackey comes a-running. Sorry, Madame, I was hoping for better." He sneered, reaching for his 'prize' once more. Before his hand was within six feet of her, Antoinette swung her cane and viciously caught Joe right between the legs.
"Rest assured, Mr. Buquet, if you so much as look at my adopted daughter again, you will wish that that was all I had done. And I will certainly not be telling you again to leave my dancers alone." She turned her back on the doubled-over form that lay gasping at her feet and led Christine back to her dressing room.
Antoinette was horrified by the quiet ease with which she moved Christine onto the couch. When her daughter flinched at her touch, she was alarmed at how cold the girl was.
"Christine, I'm going for help. I have the key and no one will be able to get in. You'll be safe here." Christine's eyes were empty as she nodded, the words barely registering.
The darkness was everywhere, the flames reaching out to take hold of her, the pain all too fresh as she could practically taste the heat. But there were faces in the flames this time, laughing, mocking, tormenting. She saw their fingers reaching for her, trying to attack her. Her breathing became ragged, though she didn't realise that she was sobbing, nor did she realise that she had curled herself into the corner of the couch, attempting to seek refuge from the depths of her mind.
A hand touched her.
She jumped away, burned, her eyes looking around madly for an escape until a voice called:
Christine.
He had been about to enter the walls of the managers' office to deliver his latest and final instructions on this pitiful attempt at opera when Antoinette had come running up to him in the shadows.
"Madame, I am busy." He said, not bothering to stop on his path.
"Christine was attacked." He froze. Turning, he looked at her in undisguised horror.
"Where is she?" The hoarse whisper was not a question, it was a demand.
"In her dressing room." She didn't have time to tell him the door was locked before he hurried away, not that such a detail would have bothered him. It hurt her that she was not the one her second daughter would turn to for comfort, but it was not something she would begrudge her child. Either of them.
When he had found the door locked, it was all he could do not to rip it off its hinges in frustration. Not knowing what state she would be in, he had resisted the urge and instead taken a few seconds to open it a slightly more conventional way.
For the second time in as many minutes, he froze.
Christine was curled up on the couch uttering dry sobs as she trembled violently. She was using her hands to try and cover herself, whilst at the same time pushing something away. Having seen her like this before, he had a vague idea what the matter was, but she had not been anywhere this bad last time! He moved to her side and tried putting a hand on her shoulder to still her. She flinched away from him. Trying to remember that she was not herself at the moment, he pushed aside the pain her action caused and called her name.
Her eyes stopped darting around, though they remained unfocussed. Softening his voice into that irresistible tone, he called again.
"Angel?" She raised a hand tentatively to his unmasked cheek, her fingers brushing lightly across his skin, making sure he was not yet another torment of her mind.
And then she fell into his arms, the sobs no longer dry.
He sat on the couch, pulling her into his lap. Clinging onto him with all the strength she possessed, she just let the tears flow, safe in the knowledge that her Angel was there, that it was alright now.
When Antoinette walked in, she found Christine curled up, but in the lap of her masked mentor, her arms so tight around him it was a wonder he could breathe. As she wept, he stroked her hair, whispering soft words of comfort – or perhaps they weren't words, perhaps it was just so that she could hear his voice. As she shut the door behind her, he looked up and quietly demanded:
"What happened?" Antoinette sat in the chair at the dressing table so that she was facing the pair.
"I don't know. I found Buquet with her. I think he was trying to rape her." She choked on the last two words.
Never in all his years of being tormented, tortured and betrayed, never in all the pain he had had inflicted on him, in all the myriad of ways people had found to hurt him, never had he felt such an overwhelming hatred for anyone. This was not a fire that burned within him, it was a volcano just begging to erupt and devour whatever was in its path.
But for the weeping rose he cradled in his arms, he would have given in to it there and then.
"Did he . . .?" He could not even find the words, so abominable was the thought. A man – that man, if he could be called that – any man, touching his Christine, hurting her, violating her . . . He knew she was strong, but she had already borne more than he would have believed. If there was any answer other than 'no' to his question . . .
"I heard him strike her. Beyond that, I think she is physically unharmed."
"He touched her. He hit her." Instinctively, he held onto his precious charge tighter with each sentence, though he barely realised he'd spoken. Christine shifted slightly, regaining his attention. Looking up at him, she whispered in relief.
"You came." He could not help pressing her head to his chest as he whispered back.
"Of course. I always will. Forgive me for not being there when you needed me."
"No," meeting her eyes, he was stricken, "because you're here, when I need you. There's nothing to forgive." He looked at her in astonishment, wanting to believe her acceptance, but unable to grant himself the same favour.
"I should have-" She put a finger on his lips, silencing him in what had become their usual manner.
"You may be the Opera Ghost, but you're still a man. And you still came." Though he didn't understand it, he had to accept her logic, for her finger prevented any further argument. So he simply nodded and resumed his hold on her. They sat there for several minutes before Antoinette asked the question.
"Christine, do you think you will be well enough to perform?" Christine turned, surprised.
"Mother, I didn't hear you come in."
"Do you think you can perform?" She wiped her eyes a little, considering, until her hand was pushed away and replaced by a handkerchief. As her Angel softly dried her face, her eyes searched his for an answer. Once he was finished, he lowered his head to hers, which she tilted that he might whisper in her ear.
"Is go dté tú mo mhúirnín slán." She closed her eyes, savouring that wonderful voice, the comfort it provided and the hope and promise it offered. When she opened them again, he was silently repeating Madame Giry's question. Turning back to her second mother, she answered.
"I'll be fine. I can perform." She answered, squeezing her Angel's hand, showing both of them where she drew her strength from. "At least it's only the silent part; I don't know that I'd be able to sing right now."
Not the right thing to say.
She felt him tense up behind her and remembered how much of a sore point the issue was with him.
"Angel, it's alright-"
"It is far from 'alright'. This place would ruin you for the sake of a barely respectable name and a patron who isn't worth the time of day."
"Angel?" Now she was worried. Seeing her discomfort, he renewed his embrace, hushing her into calm once more.
"Don't worry, my dear. All will be well." Shifting her so that she was looking at him, he reverted back to being her instructor. "But you must be ready to sing." Searching his eyes for the reprieve she so desperately needed, she found nothing but the conviction behind his words. Obediently she nodded, hoping she could ignore the Ghost who spoke to her and draw strength from her Angel.
She was going to need it.