Desolation Dreamed Of

Of Piqués and Pasts

Pull fabric taut. Thumb at edge. Run slowly up, counting. One. Two. Three. Continue. Seventeen rows. Only three more to go. Thread. Bead. Needle. And continue.

It was midday in Paris and the House was still. All but Christine had left for lunch; with only a handful of beads left to stitch onto the garment, she was nearly done as well. Before the needle could pierce the coarse muslin, a soft knock disturbed the tranquil air around her. Christine uttered a short word of consent and the door gave way, the sound of small feet padding on the hardwood floor echoing across the room.

"Good afternoon, Miss Christine," came a sing-song voice which she quickly identified as that of her friend.

"Good afternoon, Miss Margaret," Christine replied, a soft smile come.

She and Meg had long since joked around with formalities that no longer existed after years of friendship. In fact, Meg was one of the first people that ever spoke to Christine when she arrived at the Opera. This was likely due to the fact that her mother, Madame Giry, took on the responsibility of caring for the young Christine when she arrived from Sweden. Meg, two years her junior, would often sit with Christine on her small bed and describe in intricate detail the scenes which her mother brought to life through her choreography. Christine would sit, entranced, as Meg's words transformed into living pictures in her mind.

She would imagine La Sylphide, the only ballet she had seen before her accident. Her father played violin in the orchestra and able to watch the entire ballet from a side stage, as there was no where else that her father could send her. She watched in rapture as ballerinas performed jetés and moved gracefully en pointe across the stage.

Although the subject of their discussions changed in time, their friendship never faltered. Christine relied on Meg as the vision that she no longer possessed. Meg led her around Paris on the few occasions when Christine had to venture outside of the Opera House, and kept her informed of all the gossip that circulated through the Opera Garnier, but had missed Cecile and Isabelle. She would tell Christine exactly what every person looked like so that when she heard their voices, she could imagine their features.

She had come in for a fitting as the opening night was drawing near, expecting to find Isabelle there, measuring tape in hand. When she was nowhere to be found, Meg pulled up a chair next to Christine with a sigh.

"She'll be back soon," Christine offered with a smile.

"No hurry. We haven't talked in ages, anyway. I heard some terrible rumors about you, actually."

"Why would any waste their breath on me?" she said with macabre humor and a grim laugh.

"It's the Prima Donna's doing, of course." That explained it.

"Ah," was all she said in response.

"Exactly. The Prima Donna is saying that you misbeaded her headdress and that's why it fell apart." It wasn't accusatory, merely laughable.

"Is that right? Well, I'm not sure how my beading would make chunks of metal fall to the ground. I'm fairly sure that's not part of my job description." After her lesson and her Angel's lovely story, she had become significantly calmer about the situation.

"We all think it's ridiculous, but of course, no one crosses the great Madame Guidicelli." Her words were tinged with sarcasm, and they both let out a small chuckle. "The Opera Ghost is to blame, of course."

"Is he?" Christine mused.

"Oh, yes. I suspect a letter shall show up any minute now explaining his little stunt," Meg said, with no irony, no doubt.

"You can't honestly believe that he exists," Christine teased, shaking her head as she continued to count the rows of beads along the hem.

"Well, my mother believes in him," she said haughtily, quite proud. Meg, at only fifteen, was still at that stage in her teenage years where she staunchly agreed with every word her mother uttered.

"You're both just being superstitious." It wasn't meant to harm her, but the words stung Meg nonetheless.

"Superstitious?" she asked indignantly, bracing herself against Christine's work table as a malicious tone entered her voice. "And I suppose your 'angel' is more real than my ghost?" It was beginning to cease being a joke for Meg. "Is he really all that different? An invisible man that never shows himself, speaks softly in your ear, leaves you roses. The Opera Ghost would do the very same!'

"My angel is real." Christine's voice flared with an anger that even she was surprised to hear. "Seeing isn't believing. In case you've forgotten, I can't see anything to believe in it. That's faith."

"You know that's not what I meant," said Meg as her voice softened and she let her hand drop from the wooden surface. There was a pause and Christine could hear her friend gulp in hesitation. "I've been thinking about it, and I wouldn't be surprised if your angel was the Opera Ghost." Another pause as she assessed how far she could go. "You're just afraid to admit it."

"Don't even joke about something like that!" Christine snapped, unable to hear the concerned undertone in her voice.

"I'm not joking," she said, the anger flaring once again. "Your angel is probably the Opera Ghost in disguise and he's going to do something awful to you just like he does to Carlotta and the other ballet dancers."

"You're just ignorant. The Opera Ghost doesn't exist. My Angel does, though, and he was sent from heaven."

"I'm ignorant?" Meg's voice suddenly softened as she laid a hand on Christine's arm. "Christine, you should stop seeing him. A mysterious man beckoning you every day? I'm telling you, it's him. There's nothing but danger in speaking to him."

Christine ripped her hand away in disgust. "You're just jealous because he's come to me and not to you!"

Silence echoed through the room and Meg slowly stood and Christine closed her eyes as she exhaled slowly.

"I was just trying to help, Christine."

And with that, she turned and left the room to leave Christine alone once again. She had debated over and over in her mind whether or not to tell Meg about her angel. She told herself that Meg was her best friend, but at the same time reminded herself that her angel was sent from God. Could she tell someone about this divine being? Perhaps revealing her secret to Meg so many months ago had been a mistake.

She would be back soon, when Isabelle got back from lunch. Christine just hoped that by that time, she was either gone or prepared to both apologize for her words and forgive Meg for hers.

Somehow, Christine had avoided Meg through her last hours of work and was now headed to her daily lesson. She had only been walking for a few minutes, though, when she heard her name ring out through the hallway.

Male voice. Shocked male voice. Who do I know? Father. Angel. No, this voice is young. A chorus member? No. This voice is elegant.

Her name resounded against the stone walls once more as she tried to remember the timbre of the utterance. She heard rapid footsteps as someone ran towards her and she stopped walking, lowering her hand from the wall slowly. She turned around to face the sound of the person coming towards her and waited silently until she felt someone reach out and lace their fingers gently with hers.

"Christine Daaé, I can't believe it's you!"

She didn't respond for several moments and bewilderment overtook her features.

"I'm sorry," she finally said, hoping that this would indicate her inability to identify the man holding her hands. Slowly, he brought of her hands up to his cheek.

I can feel his smile. His cheek. His brow. Thin ridge above right eyebrow…Scar…From when we chased each other around the orchard! Raoul!

Suddenly, with a gasp of joy, she threw her hands around his neck in an embrace. He, in return, wrapped his arms around her body before spinning her around once in pure shock. When he finally let her down, she was out of breath and flushed from her excitement.

"Raoul! What in the world are you doing here?" she demanded, wishing so dearly that she could see his matured features. All that she could picture in her mind was the young face of a boy who played with her before the accident.

"My brother has become a patron of the Opera Garnier and he has sent me to take a tour of the building. What are you doing here? Where is your father?" His questions and words were rushed, excited, hastily spilling out of his mouth in an excited windfall of joy.

Her smile only faltered for a moment, but she pushed herself to speak. "I work here. I'm afraid my father passed several years ago." It was then when she realized that people had stopped their usual bustle beneath the opera house. The sound of their footsteps had ceased, and she could hear whispers rippling about the gathered crowd. She could feel their eyes shooting knives at her, for what did a lowly blind worker girl have anything to do with a vicomte? Such things were certainly not to be borne. With a gulp, she continued. "I'm afraid that I must go, though, I'm late—…" He was grasping her hands once more.

"We must have dinner. Please say you will!"

"I'm afraid I—…" She pulled gently at her hands, but he held on with the gentlest resistance.

"Please, Christine."

She was silent, knowing that he would not relent. Her Angel had told her so many times that he was to be the driving force in her life. She was no to do frivolous things like go out to dinner or meet up with young men (not that her rank required much of either.) Despite her fear of his anger, she had known Raoul longer than her angel and she had to give him the courtesy of at least sitting down to dinner with him.

Nothing else.

She was already late, though. Was that three days in a row their lessons had been delayed? With urgency, she pulled her hands free and gave Raoul a warm smile. "Tomorrow, I suppose," she said finally. "But I really must go. Meet me outside the opera house." She could only hope that her angel would not see her there. Surely his power would not extend past the walls of the Opera Garnier. Even God would want her to spend time with a long forgotten friend. Before he could respond, she had her hand back on the wall and was rushing down the hall in search of the dressing room.

Her hand met the doorknob and she hesitated, taking a deep breath. After the moment of preparation, she opened the door, closing it with a soft click behind her before standing in silence, waiting.

Steady n—

"How dare you."

Heh. Hope I didn't leave you all hanging too much there. (: Thanks for all the reviews!

-Christine